


The Boy With the Wolf Tattoo

by dinglehoppersaplenty



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, M/M, Multi, Pack of Delinquents, Recreational Drug Use, Tattoos, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex, Underage Smoking, Underage Tattooing, badboy!Stiles, teacher!Derek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2017-12-09 21:02:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 36,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/777949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinglehoppersaplenty/pseuds/dinglehoppersaplenty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles’ life was going pretty decently, if you ignored the part where he had no idea what to do with it: he had his friends, his dad, and his tattoos. Then Beacon Hills High School hires Derek Hale as their new history teacher. Stiles thinks that maybe if he gets the stick out of his ass, he’ll be a bit less of a douchebag, and can't help but try to rile him up at all times. What begins as not-so-innocent flirtation turns into something more, and Stiles wonders if he's finally gotten himself in over his head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Stiles gave himself his first tattoo when he was fourteen, the summer between freshman and sophomore year. He had just been fucking around on the internet late one night, and _somehow_ “how to tattoo at home” had ended up in his search bar. Within the next 24 hours, he’d had a small, slightly-uneven diamond on the inside of his left ankle. It had hurt like a bitch, but somehow that pain had done more to focus him than a lot of other things had done that they’d been trying at the time.

The next time Scott came over to spend the night, he’d shown off the small mark. Scott’s eyes had gone wide, and then he’d grinned and said, “I want one too.”

Stiles second tattoo was a small lightning bolt on his hip to match the one on Scott’s, easily hidden by their boxers, and a mark of their ever-lasting friendship.

To say Stiles was hooked after that was kind of an understatement.

By the time he was seventeen, he had twelve tattoos total. Sure, some (read: all) of them were not obtained through strictly legal means, done in seedy tattoo parlors two towns over or in his bedroom at four a.m. or in the back of his Jeep when he and Scott were probably more stoned than they should have been, but most of them were small, and the Sheriff stopped wondering how he even got them sometime around the seventh. (His only rule was “nothing huge or you can’t hide in a job interview until you’re eighteen,” and Stiles could live with that, especially since his dad let him get whatever piercings he wanted, so long as Stiles paid for them.)

He didn’t exactly consider himself a delinquent. There were just laws that he thought were rather pointless so he didn’t follow them. It wasn’t like he was going to go around lighting shit on fire or murdering people. And really, he didn’t start virtually any of the fights he’d gotten into--if anything, Scott had, and he’d just been trying to make sure his best friend didn’t get his ass kicked. Also, Jackson was a douchebag who deserved the shiner Stiles had given him a hell of a lot more than he deserved Lydia giving him a second (more like fifth) chance, so Stiles didn’t really count that fight.

But even if _he_ didn’t consider himself a delinquent, the majority of Beacon Hills High School did. Most of his reputation wasn’t even true. He’d never lit anyone on fire, not even accidentally. He had never beaten anyone up with a baseball bat, although he’d threatened to use one on Jackson’s dick if he ever cheated on Lydia again. (He hadn’t. Yet.) He _had_ done some anonymous mutual blowjobbing in the bathroom at the Jungle, but it was only that one time, and the dude had been like, nineteen, max. He wasn’t really all that averse to breaking and entering, but it was usually just his friends’ houses, not like, banks or liquor stores. He’s never even _done_ coke, much less sold it.

And yeah, okay, he skipped class more than necessary, probably. He didn’t _chain-smoke_ , per se, but he definitely had an oral fixation that he liked to fill with cigarettes (and dick, and pussy. Sometimes Lydia’s, when she and Jackson were off-again. She had such a sweet pussy, Jackson didn’t deserve her at all.) One of his favorite things to do was park out at the reserve and get high, usually with Scott.

But when he did go to class, he got some of the best grades. Just because he was a smart ass didn’t mean he was a bad kid, and most teachers seemed pleasantly surprised when he turned up. (Except for Harris, who literally gave Stiles a detention for breathing too loudly once, so Stiles was pretty sure the guy just had some unresolved issues and took them out on Stiles. Whatever.)

He had a best friend that he would kill for, if necessary, and a group of friends besides that was pretty fucking awesome. He had a decent relationship with his father, despite the fact that they didn’t quite see eye-to-eye on things. If he wanted sex at any time he knew where he could get it, no questions asked. He had a job at the video store that wasn’t awful--he didn’t have to take out his lip ring, and there wasn’t even a dress code, not really. He had people who weren’t afraid to deal to the Sheriff’s kid. He had his tattoos.

All considering, Stiles Stilinski’s life was pretty good.

Until fucking _Derek Hale_ came around.


	2. Chapter 1

The first day back to school was always fucking great because it didn’t start at goddamn seven in the morning for anyone besides the freshman. While they got oriented, the upperclassmen got to sleep in, and it was fucking awesome.

The night before had been pretty chill for Stiles. He wasn’t sure what his friends had done, but Stiles had gone to the reserve with some choice weed that he didn’t feel like sharing yet. When he’d gone home, he’d jerked off for like an hour before passing out. Some would consider that a waste of a night, but they didn’t know what they were missing.

Stiles pulled into Scott’s driveway at quarter to eleven, music blaring out of his Jeep and cigarette dangling from his lips as he shifted the gears. He left it idling for a moment, plucking the cigarette from his mouth and using his other hand to lay on the horn. It sent a bird twittering from one of the trees near Scott’s house, but Stiles didn’t detect any movement from Scott’s window.

They were going to be late, probably, but no one ever really missed too much in homeroom; he could probably get Scott to charm the lady at the front desk while he snuck onto one of their computers to get their schedules if they missed it completely. Hell, if Scott took too long, they might just call it a day and skip entirely.

He tried the horn one more time, laying on it for a good thirty seconds, but the only thing he got for his trouble was a dog barking three houses over. With a sigh, he turned off the Jeep, frowning a little at the sudden silence. He stuck the cigarette back in his mouth before pulling the handle, making the door swing open with a loud creaking sound. He jumped out, jogged up the steps, and started rooting around for the spare key the McCall’s tucked above the door, between the siding and door frame. He took one last drag of his cigarette before flicking it off the porch, then used the key, blowing the smoke out of the corner of his mouth as he opened the door.

“Scott!” he yelled as he shut the door behind him, pocketing the key and pushing his aviators up on top of his head. “Scott, get your ass up!”

He took the stairs up to Scott’s room two at a time, skidding only a little bit when he got to Scott’s door. He pounded on it, right over the empty eye socket of the large zombie Allison had painted on it last week. “Scott!” he barked, then pressed his ear to the door to see if he could hear anything. He heard a groan, then nothing.

“Lazy asshole,” Stiles murmured with fondness. The door was unlocked when Stiles tried it, so Stiles pushed the door open, calling, “You better not be naked, dude.”

Stiles wasn’t sure if he was naked or not; not only was Scott completely covered by his blankets, head to toe, but he’d also tacked a couple up over his windows, making the room dark as shit. Stiles turned on the light, and Scott groaned, the lump under the blankets shifting.

“Hey, dumbass!” Stiles yelled, chucking the nearest throwable object--a mini-Magic 8 Ball on a keychain--at where he believed Scott’s ass to be. His good shot was rewarded with a yelp and Scott throwing off the blankets to look at him.

Stiles grinned into the upside-down face of his best friend, who squinted back up at him from the foot of the bed. “Good morning, starshine!”

Groaning again, Scott yanked the blankets back over his head. “Fuck off,” he mumbled.

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Stiles walked further into the room, kicking aside Scott’s dirty clothes to get at his windows.

“Fuck you,” Scott replied eloquently.

“Not with that kind of tone,” Stiles said sternly, unpinning the blanket from the window he knew would spill light all over where Scott’s head was. “I prefer charm to outward hostility.” He drew up the blinds just as Scott pushed his head out of the blankets once more, and cackled when Scott cursed.

“Jesus fucking--okay, dude, I’m up, holy shit,” Scott whined, rolling away from the light with a grimace. “Just--shut the blinds, would you?”

Stiles let the blinds fall with a snap, then picked his way over to Scott’s bed. “If you get dressed within the next two minutes, you’ll probably be able to make out with Allison before homeroom,” he lied, because school started in seven minutes and it took at least ten to get there, even the way Stiles drove.

It seemed to get Scott moving at least, pushing the sheets further down his chest and kicking them off his legs. He was in his boxers, thankfully, so Stiles wasn’t scarred for life (not that he hadn’t seen Scott’s bare ass--or even his dick--before, but it was the principle of the thing.)

“If you’re not too hungover for it, there’s coffee waiting for you in the Jeep,” Stiles said, picking his way back toward the door, and Scott waved a hand in acknowledgement, scrubbing the other hand through his red-streaked hair and only serving to further mess up his bedhead. (One good thing that came out of Jackson snipping off chunks of Stiles’ hair last Thursday and the resulting buzz cut was that Stiles no longer had to deal with behead, it was awesome.) Stiles paused at the door long enough to say, “If you’re not down in five minutes I’m leaving without you,” and then headed back outside.

He lowered his sunglasses back over his eyes, then lit another cigarette on Scott’s porch with his dad’s old Zippo that he had temporarily misappropriated. (Stiles still wasn’t sure he knew Stiles had found it, considering it had been in a box hidden deep in his dad’s closet, along with pictures of Stiles’ mother. Stiles had left the pictures.) After re-hiding the spare key back above the door, he made his way back to the Jeep.

He was barely halfway done with his cigarette when Scott came stumbling out of the house, a backwards cap pulled on over his bedhead and cheap imitation Wayfarers covering his eyes. After locking the door, he shambled his way down the steps, nearly tripping over his Vans.

“Any day now,” Stiles called, and Scott just lifted his middle finger, not hurrying up at all.

Stiles flicked ash in his general direction.

Finally, Scott was in the car, and Stiles started it, the music he’d been playing immediately blaring out again; Scott yelled and flailed, punching at the radio to turn it back off.

“Jesus Christ!” he yelled, like the music was still playing, one hand clutching at his head. Stiles snickered as he put the Jeep in reverse, downright laughing when Scott aimed a punch at his shoulder. “You’re such a dick!”

“You love me,” Stiles replied around his cigarette. “Coffee’s in the cupholder.”

Scott descended on the travel mug like it was nectar from the gods--as he should, because Stiles made some damn good coffee--and Stiles smiled as they headed to school.

*

They were late, as Stiles expected; the parking lot was full and the halls were empty as they made their way inside and found one of the many sheets posted up in the hallways that determined where their homerooms were, assigned to teachers alphabetically by last name.

“Dude, who the fuck is Hale?” Stiles asked, squinting at the sheet. “Are they new?”

“I dunno dude, but I gotta get to the second floor.” He started toward the nearest staircase, then called over his shoulder, “Text me your schedule!”

Stiles waved a hand in acknowledgement, leisurely heading down the hall to 134 and tucking his sunglasses into the collar of his shirt. He hated new teachers, mostly because he didn’t know how to interact with them, but he supposed it was better than getting Harris for homeroom, like he had sophomore year. That had _sucked_.

He found room 134, and made a face at the fact that the door had no window; he couldn’t see whether or not the teacher was in the middle of something, and would have to just chance it. Dammit.

Crossing his fingers in hope that he wasn’t interrupting, Stiles quietly opened the door, twirling a little to shut it just as quietly behind him without looking up. He heard a giggle or two as he made a face, the door creaking anyway, and shut the door as smoothly as possible.

“Mr. Stilinski, I assume.”

Stiles whirled around at the voice, an excuse ready on his lips, but he found his voice sticking when he took in the voice’s owner. But god damn, he was _attractive_.

Tall, but not overly so; extremely well-built, even if he was hiding it under slacks and a button-up and a motherfucking _cardigan_. He looked fairly young, and Stiles was willing to bet that he wore that light dusting of stubble to make himself look older. He had a nicely-defined jaw, nice cheekbones, nice lips that were set into a firm scowl.

Oh-- _oh_. Shit.

Stiles finally realized that he’d kind of been standing there with his mouth open for longer than he should have, and he quickly tried to regain his composure. “Uh, yeah, yep. That’s me!” He made finger guns and gave his most charming smile while simultaneously heading for the empty seat at the front of the class that he’d spotted out of the corner of his eye, but the teacher was having none of that.

He reached out, hand landing on Stiles’ bare bicep (wow, he had nice hands,) and Stiles flailed to a stop. “This is yours,” he said crisply, using the hand that had stopped Stiles to take a sheet of paper from the clipboard he had in his hands and hold it out to Stiles. From the glimpse of it, it was Stiles’ schedule.

“Oh, awesome! Thanks.” Stiles reached for it, but Mr. Hale--oh god, this was his extremely attractive _teacher_ \--pulled it out of his reach. “Dude, what the--?”

“Class began five minutes ago, Mr. Stilinski.” You know, Stiles had to give him props for not stumbling over his last name. Even Stiles couldn’t do that all the time. “I don’t tolerate lateness.”

Okay, hot or no, this guy was being fucking ridiculous, and Stiles hoped his face was conveying that as he said, “Wha--dude, what’s your problem?”

He scowled even more, if that was possible. “My name is Mr. Hale, not _dude_.” Oh, it was gonna be like that, huh?

“I’m sorry, _Mr. Hale_.” He couldn’t even try to be charming anymore. “But seriously, what the fuck is your problem?” One of the girls behind him gasped, and a guy whispered, “ _Dude_ ,” but Stiles was more concerned with Mr. Hale, whose admittedly impressive eyebrows rose.

“I’ll see you after school, Mr. Stilinski, for detention. I don’t tolerate that kind of language in my classroom, either.”

Stiles felt his mouth fall open indignantly. “What? No, you can’t do that--”

“Watch me,” Mr. Hale challenged with some expressive eyebrows, pressing Stiles’ schedule into his chest, the paper wrinkling slightly under the pressure.

Stiles wanted to retort so badly it felt like it was _physically paining him_ not to, but somehow he managed to keep his mouth shut, grabbing the paper before it dropped between them. He scowled, then spun on his heel and headed for his seat, ignoring the looks of his classmates.

Mr. Hale waited until Stiles had slumped into his seat before he began speaking again. “As I was saying, Mrs. Stubb retired at the end of last year, and I will be taking over her former classes.”

Stiles sincerely hoped that Mr. Hale was fucking kidding because _no_ , okay, just no, because he had signed up for AP European History this year specifically because he knew Mrs. Stubb would be teaching it. She had been his history teacher last year, and he’d loved her. Stiles had actually gone to almost all of his history classes that semester, and had even willingly skipped lunch a few times to keep talking with her. She had made things interesting and exciting, and had understood that not everyone learned the same way.

Instead he was gonna have _this guy?_ What the actual _fuck?_

He blinked when there was suddenly a stack of student handbooks in his face, waiting for him to take one and pass along to the kids behind him. He took them, sliding one off the top, and glared at it as Mr. Hale began talking again, the usual bullshit about the beginning of the year: rules and their addendums, don’t lose them because otherwise you can’t leave class, etc. etc.

Stiles felt his phone buzz in his pocket, and he thanked whatever the hell was up there that he had remembered to turn it on vibrate--Mr. Hale probably would have taken his phone away, just to prove a point. It buzzed a few more times as the remaining twenty minutes allotted for homeroom dragged on, and Stiles had never been so anxious to answer his phone, even if it was probably just Scott.

Finally, about five minutes before the bell, Mr. Hale said, “You’re free to talk amongst yourselves--quietly.” As everyone began chattering, Stiles dug for the phone in his pocket. With a few furtive glances toward Mr. Hale—he was sitting down behind his desk, focused on something on his computer—Stile slipped his phone out and quickly read the several messages he’d received.

_From: Scott  
Hey dude, I’ve got Spanish, Trig, Lifetime Sports, Psych, English. You?_

_From: Scott_  
_How’s the new teacher, btw?_

_From: Lydia_  
_You’d better tell me how the new teacher is because i have him first period and i want to know if he’ll be worth it._

Stiles made a new group message.

_To: Scott, Lydia, Allison, Jackson, Erica  
New teacher is a DICK!!!! Already got a detention with him and i didn’t even do anything!_

He sent the message, then stuffed his phone back into his pocket to wait for replies, looking at his now-severely-wrinkled schedule. He had Spanish too, but not until second period--understandable, since he and Scott were at different levels--and while he didn’t have Lifetime Sports, he (miraculously) had a study hall during third period. He checked over at Mr. Hale again--still intrigued by whatever was on his computer--and pulled his phone out again, somewhat hiding it underneath his wrinkled schedule.

He had just pulled up his conversation with Scott, only for it to start buzzing loudly against the desk with incoming texts. He quickly took it off the desk, hiding it by his side while he looked at Mr. Hale, heart pounding wildly in fear that he'd heard. He watched long enough that he saw Mr. Hale glance around the room, but then he just turned back to his computer, setting his chin in his hand. Stiles held still for a few more seconds, but once he determined the teacher wasn’t looking, he opened the new messages.

_From: Scott  
Dude that sucks!_

_From: Lydia_  
_We can work with that if he’s hot_

_From: Jackson_  
_I’m laughing really hard at you right now_

“Some friends you guys are,” Stiles murmured to himself, choosing to respond only to Scott.

_From: Stiles  
Tell me about it dude. Sorry, you’ll have to get a ride with allison to work._

_From: Scott_  
_Was planning on that anyway. Hey, do we have any classes together?_

_From: Stiles_  
_Not really but I have a study hall the same time as your lifetime sports, so we should be able to chill._ _Meet me behind the cafeteria?_

_From: Scott  
Sweet!_ _Sound good, man._

Stiles was just about to text Scott another reply when the bell rang; he stuffed his phone and his schedule into his pocket, then headed for English.

*

By the time his shortened third period rolled around, Stiles was itching for a cigarette and ready to just go home and be done with the day. A few minutes into the study hall time, he got a pass for the bathroom, then used it to head out of the building and around to the back, by the large dumpsters outside the cafeteria where there were no cameras.

He found both Scott and Allison already there. Scott was sitting at the edge of the loading dock, his feet dangling off the edge, while Allison had lain down across it with her head in his lap. He was leaning down to say something to her when Stiles stepped out, but both of them looked over, wearing wide grins, as he greeted them and pulled out his cigarettes.

“So, shitty teacher, huh?” Scott said, while the cigarette caught and Stiles sucked in.

“Yes!” he said on an exhale, pointing with his cigarette. “He’s such a dick!” Allison made a considering noise, while Scott looked mostly interested in playing with her hair (just recently dyed a vibrant-yet-dark blue, with purple underneath.) Stiles added, “I’m somewhat conflicted though. Like, he’s so attractive, but--”

“I dunno, I didn’t think he was that bad,” Allison said thoughtfully. “I mean, he was kinda strict, but I think he’s just trying to make sure he doesn’t get walked all over for the rest of the year just because he’s new, you know?”

Stiles made a face at her logic, and then Scott asked, “What’d you even say to him, anyway?”

“Who says it’s my fault?” he cried indignantly, and the two of them gave him identical looks of judgment and disbelief. Narrowing his eyes, he pointed his cigarette at them and said, “You’ve been spending too much time together.”

Scott grinned, but Allison continued giving him that look. “What did you say to him, Stiles?”

“Nothing!” At Allison’s arched eyebrow, he deflated a little. “Okay, so maybe I called him out on his shit.” She gave him an even more intense eyebrow, and he flailed. “Okay, okay, so I asked him what the fuck his problem was, in those terms almost exactly, and then he gave me a detention, you happy?”

“Stiles!” Allison reprimanded, while Scott started cracking up, bending to hide his smile in Allison’s hair. “No wonder he gave you a detention, you little shit!” She reached out and thwacked him in the shin—the only place she could reach—and Stiles made a wounded noise. “You deserve it, dumbass.”

“The guy was being a complete douchebag, though! He called me out in front of the whole class, what was I supposed to do?”

“Uh, take it like a man and sit down and shut up?” Allison rolled her eyes, letting her head drop back down into Scott’s lap. His fingers quickly found purchase in her hair again. “You were being a dick just as much as he was.”

Stiles made an affronted noise. “I was trying to be discreet during my entrance! I didn’t _mean_ to interrupt him!”

“Well if you’d been on time, you wouldn’t have interrupted, would you?”

“Hey, don’t blame me, it was _your_ boyfriend who couldn’t get out of bed.” Scott, who had been laughing at the two of them, stopped abruptly, putting on a sad face when Allison arched an eyebrow at him.

Stiles stopped pacing and dropped to a cross-legged position next to the now-bickering couple, making sure to be downwind so the smoke didn’t blow in their faces.

The bickering came to a quick end when Scott leaned down, pecking her soundly on the lips while she was in the middle of a word. She made a face at him when he leaned back, but there was a smile quirking behind her lips; he leaned in again, the kiss a little deeper this time, and when he straightened back up, both of them were smiling in a sickeningly sweet way at each other.

“Gag me,” Stiles mumbled around his cigarette, reaching for his phone. If they were just going to make out the whole time, he would find someone to talk to. He steadily ignored the increasingly wet sounds beside him, cigarette hanging loosely as he texted Erica.

_To: Erica_  
_I need new friends_

_To: Stiles_  
_Bitch you love us_

Thankfully her response came quickly; Stiles idly wondered what class she was in, not that he would really know anything about it. She went to school one town over, along with her boyfriend Boyd and a quiet but badass kid named Isaac. They had all met through the roller derby team Lydia, Allison, and Erica had all joined last year.  

_To: Erica_  
_Lies, all lies, I’m leaving all of you behind and never talking to any of you again._

_To: Stiles_  
_Leaving us for that hot new teacher? Why Mr. Stilinski, I never took you for the scandalous type._

Stiles snorted, flicking ash from the end of his cigarette before taking another drag, not even wondering how she’d heard that the new teacher was hot.

_To: Erica_  
_Who knows, maybe the stick up his ass just needs to be replaced by a dick._

_To: Stiles_  
_That’s one way to think about it. ;)_

“Hey, dude.”

Stiles didn’t look up when Scott poked at his arm, focusing on texting Erica back. “I’m leaving you all for Erica,” Stiles announced at Scott’s continued prodding. “She at least listens to me.”

“Aw, are you feeling left out?” Scott teased, leaning into Stiles and making kissing noises.

Stiles let his tongue loll out of his mouth in a mockery of making out, and Scott laughed, pressing a kiss to Stiles’ cheek instead, and Stiles playfully shoved him back before finishing out his text.

_To: Erica_  
_Honestly I’m hoping his hotness was a delusion because being such a douchebag while being that hot should be a crime._

Allison reached her arm up to drape it across Stiles’ thighs, squeezing a little in a semblance of a hug. “You know we love you,” she said with a slight pout.

“Uh-huh,” he said, blowing smoke out the side of his mouth, letting Allison take his cigarette when she reached for it. She took a quick drag, then passed it back to him, blowing the smoke away from Scott. (He would still smoke weed, but his asthma didn’t make cigarettes worth it.)

“I think you just need to give Mr. Hale another chance,” Allison said abruptly, as Stiles was inhaling so he couldn’t respond immediately. “He’s really not so bad.”

“And don’t be a dick about it,” Scott added, rather unhelpfully, just as Stiles’ phone buzzed with Erica’s response.

_To: Stiles_  
_Aw but then you would get put in jail too and then where would we be?_

“Ugh, forget Erica, I’m leaving all of you,” Stiles decided, stubbing his cigarette out on the edge of the dock before throwing it off.

Scott laughed at him.

*

The worst part, Stiles decided, was that he had History during last period, so he couldn’t just skive off and say he forgot. He supposed he could skip the class entirely, but Mr. Hale would probably only  double the punishment and hate him for the rest of the year. And no matter how much of a douchebag he thought Mr. Hale, the idea of him hating Stiles unnecessarily didn’t sit well with Stiles. Stiles was a good person, okay? (Even if he was maybe kind of an asshole sometimes.)

The second worst part was the fact that Stiles’ mind had not exaggerated Mr. Hale’s hotness. When Stiles walked into class, Mr. Hale was just sitting there and still incredibly gorgeous, from his gelled hair and super cheekbones to his stupid fucking cardigan--why did Stiles even find that _attractive_ , god--to his slightly informal boots, one of them peeking out on the other side of his desk.

Mr. Hale didn’t seem to notice when Stiles walked into the room, and Stiles felt a quick thrill of hope that maybe he would _never_ notice Stiles as he took a seat in the back of the room--but then Mr. Hale looked up from his computer, eyes locking directly onto Stiles. Stiles froze in his seat, the gaze feeling way more intense than it should and sending something hot coiling down his spine. Mr. Hale blinked, but kept his gaze steady, eyebrow rising in some mixture of intrigue and arrogance; Stiles slumped back into his seat, the stare making him squirm, the blush rising into his cheeks making him uncomfortable. Finally, Stiles couldn’t take it anymore, looking down at the desk, feeling his leg jittering under the seat.

He dug into his pocket for the fine-tip marker he always carried around, pulling off the cap with his teeth. By the time he felt comfortable enough to glance back up, Mr. Hale was gone from his desk, walking toward the front of the class with his clipboard and not looking at Stiles at all. Stiles shook his head, because that whole thing was fucking weird and uncalled for and Stiles really hoped the guy proved to remain a dick so he could transfer out of here.

Not long after that, the bell rang, and the class quickly quieted down, Mr. Hale not even needing to say a word for the class to fall silent.

“Thank you,” he said, once he had everyone’s attention. “As you can see, I’m not Mrs. Stubb.” A few people snickered, and there was a hint of a smile as Mr. Hale continued. “This is, however, definitely AP European History. Mrs. Stubb, as some of you may have heard, has retired for health reasons; I’m Mr. Hale, and I’ve taken over all of her previous courses.”

He paused, pulling something out of the pocket of his cardigan. “I figured we’d start out by calling roll. I’ll probably only do this until I learn everyone’s names, so just bear with me for a few days, okay?”

The thing he pulled out of his pocket ended up being a pair of reading glasses, and Stiles groaned internally, because _really_ , seeing someone look so nerdy should not have been so hot, goddammit.

Frowning a bit, Stiles resumed what he’d been attempting to do earlier, and started drawing idly on the inside of his forearm. By the time Mr. Hale got to “Stilinski, Stiles,” the lines had turned into a chain along the blue line of veins inside his arm, wrapping up his arm and down to his wrist before getting stopped by his watch.

“Yo,” Stiles responded at the sound of his name, glancing up from his work. Mr. Hale caught his gaze, barely long enough for Stiles to even blink before he was moving on to “Taylor, Susan.” It still left Stiles itching in his skin, and he looked back at his arm, severely hating the way his face heated up anyway. God, what _was_ it with this guy?

After roll, Mr. Hale set his clipboard aside and took his glasses off, setting both of them on his desk; Stiles glanced up under his lashes, marker stilling on his arm. “Now, I want to go over some ground rules for this class.” He came around to the front of his desk, then leaned back against it, crossing one foot over the other and crossing his arms in front of his chest in a way that was definitely _not_ incredibly attractive, thank you very much.

“Basically,” Mr. Hale continued, looking around the class, “what everything boils down to is, you respect me, and I’ll respect you. I know you guys don’t get paid to be here every day, but I still expect you to be here on time and prepared for class; if you show up late or unprepared, I’ll either ask you to stay after or simply ask you to leave.” The look on his face brokered no argument, and his eyes flicked over to Stiles briefly before addressing the class at large again. “I simply ask for you to not be disruptive, and to pay attention.” He held his hands out in a somewhat supplicant gesture; Stiles noted once again that he had nice hands, big, with thick fingers. “Does everyone think they can do that?”

Mr. Hale seemed to find every student’s eyes as they all nodded and hummed their assent, saving Stiles for last. Stiles eyes widened, but then he frowned, jerking his head in somewhat of a nod before looking back down at his drawing.

“Alright,” he heard Mr. Hale say, and he glanced up in time to see Mr. Hale quirk an eyebrow, then let his arms swing out to clap his hands together. “Let’s get down to business.”

Stiles had to literally bite his lip not to blurt out “to defeat the Huns.” He didn’t think that would go over too well.

*

The shortened period went by fairly quickly, to Stiles’ surprise; Mr. Hale passed out a syllabus, explaining the course and all that it would entail, taking the time to outline the AP test that they would be taking in May. Stiles only half-listened, turning his doodling to the paper instead of his arm.

Mr. Hale was still taking questions by the time the bell rang, perched on the edge of his desk again in that stupidly attractive way that really wasn’t fair at all. He looked surprised at the sound, and then clapped his hands again as everyone began packing up.

“I’ll see you all tomorrow!” he called, and then zeroed in on Stiles, again. “Mr. Stilinski, if you’ll remember to stay after class, please.”

Stiles, who had been sitting up and beginning to edge out of his seat, slumped back into it. He fiddled with the pen in his hands for a few moments, steadily ignoring the glances a few of the other students threw back at him and running his tongue stud over the inside of the ring in his lip.

Within moments, the room was clear, leaving only Stiles and Mr. Hale. Stiles refused to look up, even though he could feel Mr. Hale’s eyes on him; instead he chose to uncap his pen again and add some more shading to the tree he’d been drawing.

Finally, after a few moments, when most of the noise out in the hall had died down, Mr. Hale moved. Without even thinking about it, Stiles looked up, watching as his teacher took long, purposeful, almost swaggering steps down the aisle to Stiles’ right. He leaned back as Mr. Hale came closer, trying not to feel small and intimidated, but fuck, the guy had a “serious business” face to rival his father’s.

Finally, Mr. Hale came to a stop, standing over Stiles’ imposingly. Stiles gave him an unimpressed look. Then, Mr. Hale sighed and sat down sideways in the desk next to Stiles.

After a few moments of increasingly-awkward silence, Stiles finally burst out with, “So, are you gonna make me do anything, or just stare at me the whole time?”

“Just stare at you,” Mr. Hale deadpanned, face still in Serious Business Mode, and Stiles scowled.

“I don’t really know what you want from me,” he muttered, moodily adding in a few strokes on his paper.

“I just want your respect,” Mr. Hale said easily, like respect was something people just deserved off the bat. “And apparently, your idea of respect and mine differ greatly, which might be a problem.”

Laughing mirthlessly, Stiles turned to look at him. “You think?”

Mr. Hale continued as if Stiles hadn’t said anything, leaning back into his seat and interlacing his fingers over his (flat, toned) stomach. “I’ve told you my standards, Mr. Stilinski. I expect you to meet them, and if you can’t, I suggest you look into a different course for the rest of the year.”

Stiles snorted. “Really? That’s it? ‘My way or the highway?’ That’s fu—” He caught himself when Mr. Hale’s eyes flashed. “That’s ridiculous,” he finished, with much less fire. “Haven’t you ever heard of the term ‘compromise’?”

“I’m not going to lower my expectations for you just because everyone else has,” Mr. Hale said easily, and wow, okay, that cut a little deep. “I ask for the same thing out of each of my students. Some can handle it, and some...” He opened his hands, made a ‘what can you do?’ face. “Can’t.”

“That’s bullshit,” Stiles said before he could help himself, and didn’t let himself be cowed by the dangerous look Mr. Hale gave him. “Not every student is the same!”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Obviously not!” Stiles flailed his arms a little. “Not every student works the same, learns the same. Reacts the same way to the same stimuli! You can’t judge a fish on its ability to climb a tree, and I don’t think I deserve to be punished just because I don’t fall in line with the same shit everyone else has been brainwashed into doing!”

By the end of the rant, Mr. Hale was giving him an ‘oh, really?’ look, like he’d been expecting Stiles to go there and was completely unsurprised. That only made Stiles more agitated, but the only thing he could really think to say in response was ‘fuck you,’ which he was pretty sure wouldn’t help his case like, at all, so he just turned away from Mr. Hale, frowning at his desk.

Mr. Hale let the silence grow for a few moments, before he lifted himself out of the desk and headed back up the rows to the board. Stiles watched as Mr. Hale began erasing the few notes he’d written there, and let himself appreciate the way Mr. Hale’s cardigan stretched across the muscles in his back and the way his pants clung to the curves of his ass. Goddamn.

“I leave it up to you, Mr. Stilinski,” Mr. Hale said after a few moments, still erasing the last few marks that he’d missed on the first pass. “You can either attempt to participate in my class, or you can leave.” He set the eraser down on its ledge, then turned back to Stiles; he quickly lifted his eyes to Mr. Hale’s face. If he’d seen Stiles staring, he didn’t say anything, simply leaning back against the board, crossing his arms. “Once you’ve made your decision, you’re free to leave for the afternoon.”

Stiles blinked in surprise. “Really? That’s it?” Mr. Hale shrugged, and almost before he was done with the action, Stiles was standing up from his desk, shoving his pen into his pocket and folding up the syllabus. Mr. Hales’ eyebrows were arched in surprise as Stiles strode to the front of the class.

He stopped a barely-respectable distance away from him, the older man looking unfazed. “If we’re going to be seeing each other every day, _Mr. Hale_ , I would appreciate if you would use my preferred name of Stiles,” he stated, giving him a smirk. Mr. Hale looked surprised, but also mildly amused. “I respect you, you respect me, right? Quid pro quo?” he said, and couldn’t help but add that hissing sound from _Silence of the Lambs_ that he’d perfected back in eighth grade when he realized it freaked Scott out.

Mr. Hale’s eyes narrowed slightly, and Stiles rocked back on his heels, biting his lip so as not to grin in victory. “See you tomorrow!” he said brightly, then turned and headed out the door.

He realized that less than an hour ago he was praying for a reason to drop this class, and that Mr. Hale had practically invited him to do just that. For all his talk about not lowering expectations, it felt like his were as low as everyone else’s--that he didn’t think Stiles could handle it.

Well, Stiles would just have to fucking show him, then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can also find this story on [Tumblr](http://dinglehoppersaplenty.tumblr.com/tagged/the-boy-with-the-wolf-tattoo), where I update more frequently but with smaller parts.


	3. Chapter 2

Stiles really did love his job. It was easy, for one. He had to scan movies and make change and sometimes vacuum, and that was really about it. The owner, Dave, was a pretty cool dude, too. He had only stocked VHS tapes for the longest time, and only started getting DVDs when they stopped selling new releases on VHS. He was pretty lenient about rules, too; he let Stiles bring in his laptop and watch R-rated movies on the screens around the store and didn’t care if Stiles’ friends visited, so long as work got done.

“What’s up, nutsack?”

Speaking of.

Stiles rolled his eyes away from his computer to see Jackson standing there, hair done up in blue spikes today. He was smirking, the black-painted nails of one hand drumming on the counter, his chin perched in the other, the spiked leather cuff around his wrist glinting dully.

Not that Stiles really _enjoyed_ when Jackson came to visit; his was a particular brand of douchebaggery that was hard to stomach even on the best of days. Stiles didn’t think that finding out you were adopted really warranted being a bag of dicks to most people you encountered, but hey. What did he know.

“Hi,” Stiles replied flatly, standing up from his chair behind the counter. He looked around the store to see if there’d been any other people he’d missed coming in; there was one person looking over the back wall, a head of short, dark hair barely visible over the tops of the stacks. Then Stiles caught the fluttering of red hair around the end of a stack, and he let out an indignant squawk. “Hello to you too, Lydia!”

She lifted a hand, fluttering her fingers over the top of the stack, and Stiles rolled his eyes again, turning back to Jackson. “‘Sup?”

Jackson looked up from where he’d been playing with the display of theater-style snacks for sale further down the counter. “There’s a party tonight. We’re heading over around eleven. You in?”

“Who’s all going?” He had vague plans to go to the Jungle tonight once he got out of work, but if everyone was heading out together, he might be convinced to change them; friend-time only marginally beat out getting-laid-time, and that depended heavily on which friends.

Jackson shrugged. “I dunno. Danny said he had plans with this guy he’s been talking to, and I’m pretty sure Scott and Allison are too busy having sex to answer their phones.”

“Sounds about right,” Stiles said with a shrug, readjusting the display once Jackson had moved on to their mini-fliers about upcoming new releases. “I dunno, man. I was thinking about going to the Jungle tonight.”

“What, you’re not getting enough dick from Mr. Hale?” Jackson said with a smirk, lifting the brow that was pierced. “You spend enough time with him after school.” He pushed his tongue at his cheek several times, wiggling his eyebrows.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Fuck you, man.”

There was some truth to it, though; it’d been almost three weeks since school started, and Stiles had spent almost every day after school with Mr. Hale for some reason or another. Stiles had given him the first day as a freebie, hadn’t even made any comments under his breath or anything. It had been funny seeing Mr. Hale’s wary face when Stiles had walked in the room, spending most of the class with his eyes flicking to Stiles to make sure he didn’t cause any trouble. And Stiles was a model fucking student that day, thank you very much. He even _raised his hand_.

The next day, however, had ended with a detention for incomplete homework after Stiles had also been tardy. Stiles had taken it with a smile, and the hour after school had been spent with Mr. Hale sitting at his desk, eyes flicking to Stiles every now and then to make sure he was finishing the homework from the night previous (for only half credit at that) _and_ that night’s.

Every day Stiles would find little ways to rile him up: a comment thrown here, a missed homework assignment there, coming in five minutes late. He had also worked out somewhat of a system to the way Mr. Hale punished—he actually allowed one warning, but then if you set him off again, he would go straight to detention. (Stiles was already making plans for the next week, in seeing how far he could push before Mr. Hale suspended him.)

Somewhat surprisingly, though, Mr. Hale hadn’t given Stiles anymore stern talking-to’s; whenever Stiles stayed after—sometimes alone, sometimes with other students from Hale’s other classes—Mr. Hale simply set them to work before turning to his own and falling silent.

It wasn’t that Stiles didn’t try to get him to talk. He asked Mr. Hale questions all the time—where he was from, how old he was, whether he topped or bottomed. The most he usually got for it was glares, and in the case of the last question, another detention (which Stiles had filed away for use in getting that suspension.)

“Stiles!” Lydia suddenly called, flouncing out of the stacks and up to the desk. “Where’s _The Notebook_?”

“What—haven’t you bought that yet? You rent it every other week—”

“And I want to rent it again,” she said slowly, like Stiles was stupid. “Where is it?”

Stiles rolled his eyes, turning to the work computer and bringing up the program they used to track rentals. He quickly looked up _The Notebook_ , only to see—

“Uh, according to this, you guys still have it.”

Lydia arched a cool brow. “What.”

She lifted herself up, leaning over the counter to look at the computer screen. Jackson looked unconcerned, instead leaning back against the counter to watch _Jurassic Park III_ on the screen on the back wall. Stiles pointed out the information on the computer to Lydia. “Right there, see? ‘Rented out to: Jackson Whittemore, four days overdue.’”

She let herself drop back to the ground, whirling on Jackson. “I told you take that back last weekend!”

Jackson looked puzzled, yet still mostly unconcerned. “When?”

“Right before you dropped me off after Lisa Miller’s party?” she said, crossing her arms in front of her chest. It highlighted the way her many necklaces fell into her cleavage, and Stiles allowed himself a quick look before quickly sitting back down behind the counter.

Jackson snorted. “Babe, I was so blown that night, I’m surprised we made it home in one piece.”

“Remind me to never get in a car with you behind the wheel again,” Stiles said idly, already having turned back to his computer, wishing to avoid most of the brewing fight.

“I’m not paying for the late fee,” Lydia snapped, ignoring Stiles completely.

“Well neither am I! It’s your stupid movie that you wanted to watch all the time. Half the time we don’t even finish it!”

“It’s not like I start fingering _myself_ —”

“Oh my god!” Stiles burst, standing back up from his chair, not bothering to recoil when the two of them turned their dark looks on him; he was mostly concerned with the other customer, who (thankfully) looked like he either hadn’t heard them or was just ignoring them. “Just keep the damn movie!” Lydia arched a brow, and Stiles continued, “Seriously, you guys are the only ones who rent it anyway. And you’ve rented it enough times that I’m pretty sure you’ve paid for it like, three times over.”

Jackson grumbled something that Stiles didn’t catch but earned him an elbow to the ribs from Lydia.

“For real though, just go, before you start having hate-sex against my counter.”

“You’d love it,” Jackson sneered, but he still placed a possessive hand on the small of Lydia’s back.

“Yeah, but I don’t want to have to clean up after you.” Knowing Jackson, he’d come all over everything, the jackass. “Also, I don’t think my boss would appreciate it as much as I would.”

“You guys are perverts,” Lydia said with a roll of her eyes, but Stiles could detect a hint of fondness.

“And yet, you still willingly hang out with us,” Stiles said with wonder.

“I grace you with my presence,” she corrected, and Stiles pretended to swoon just to see the hint of a smile on Lydia’s face. She shook her head at him, then started pulling on Jackson’s arm, saying, “We should go. I want to watch the Notebook before the party.”

“Yeah, ‘watch,’” Stiles said with air-quotes, ducking the punch that Lydia aimed over the counter and laughing.

She glared at him when she missed, then without another word, turned to head out the door, pulling Jackson with her. Jackson allowed himself to be dragged away, slinging an arm around Lydia’s shoulders and pressing a kiss to the side of her head where her hair was shaved.

“Hey!” Jackson said over his shoulder, pointing with his free hand. “Text me if you decide you want to party instead of getting some dick.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles said, waving them off as he sat back down behind the counter; Lydia slipped ahead of Jackson to open the door for herself before he could do it for her.

“Bye, Stiles!” she called without looking back, waving her hand over her shoulder.

He waved back, attention already turned back to his computer. He probably wasn’t going to go to the party—even if he found out that Scott and Allison were going, too, (which wasn’t likely since he was pretty sure it was one of their unofficial ‘date nights’ tonight anyway,) he really wasn’t in the mood to feel like a fifth wheel tonight.

He was also horny as fuck. Spending quality time with your right hand—or even your left—only went so far. He and Danny had kind of a mutual no-strings-attached-hook-up situation, but with him interested in a specific guy lately, that was out of the question. He could probably find a nice girl at the party to give him a handjob, or maybe even a blowjob, but he was in the mood for something of the decidedly male variety, and there was no guarantee of gay guys at any kind of party Jackson was aware of. (Spending more time than necessary with Mr. Hale certainly hadn’t been helping on that front, either. Who knew that thinking of someone glaring at him could get Stiles going? Not Stiles, at least not until last weekend.)

The sudden clearing of a throat made him look up from his game of Minesweeper. Then he saw the scowling face of Mr. Hale, and with a squawk of surprise, flailed himself out of the chair, only just barely managing not to brain himself on the desk or floor.

“Jesus—don’t _do_ that!” he berated from the floor. Scowling and willing his heart to stop beating so fast, he pulled himself up to standing, using the desk behind the counter as leverage, while Mr. Hale’s eyebrow rose.

It was kind of weird, like it always was when you saw your teachers outside of school and had to recognize that they were real people who didn’t live within the vacuum of the classroom—they did things like go grocery shopping and get their cars fixed and even rented movies, apparently. It was also a bit weird to see Mr. Hale out of his school clothes; instead of a cardigan and tie, he had on a simple grey v-neck and leather jacket that still looked just as good on him, if not better than the stupid fucking cardigan. Stiles scowled even more. “How long have you even been standing there?”

“Long enough.” He set the three tapes in his hands on the counter, pushing them towards Stiles, an obvious gesture that combined with the look on his face to say, _And I’m ready to go now, so if you could stop being an idiot and get me out of here, that’d be great._

Stiles cleared his throat and took the movies, giving Mr. Hale his own unimpressed face that he hoped said, _You’re kind of an asshole_.

“Do you have an account here already?” he asked, deciding not to be overly hostile to him; even if he was an asshole, he was still a paying customer, and he didn’t think Dave would like it if he treated him badly. Stiles put the movies on the counter next to him before exiting out of his search for _The Notebook_.

He let his mouse hover over the “Register New Renter” button, before Mr. Hale cleared his throat and said, “I should, yes.”

Stiles nodded and brought up the search bar. He quickly typed in Hale, and it brought up a few results. “Uh, first name?”

When Mr. Hale didn’t respond immediately, Stiles peeked up at him; he was looking a little constipated, if Stiles was telling the truth, but it was probably supposed to be conflicted about giving one of his problem students his first name.

“C’mon, dude, it’s not your fucking Social Security Number, it’s just a name.”

He glared. “Derek,” he finally said, voice almost a growl, and Stiles clicked on the name, glad it had actually been one of the options.

“I didn’t really peg you for a Derek,” Stiles said idly, grabbing the first movie off his stack and opening the case to scan the code stuck to the tape. “But then again, you don’t really look like a Richard or a Peter, so…”

Mr. Hale— _Derek_ —didn’t reply, just stood there looking surly.

“Okaaay then,” Stiles said, directing his gaze back to the movie he was checking in, doing a double-take when he realized it was _Star Wars: A New Hope_. He quickly looked at the titles of the others, just to see, and—yep, _Empire Strikes Back_ and _Return of the Jedi_. He tugged his lip ring into his mouth, letting his tongue ring clack against it a few times, debating for a few moments about whether or not to ruin all of the street cred he may or may not have, even if it was just with his teacher who didn’t even really like him all that much in the first place.

Then he just couldn’t take it. He had to _know_. “Please tell me you believe that Han shot first.”

He chanced a glanced back up at Mr. Hale, who had simply arched an eyebrow at him. “What.”

“I—I mean, like—the VHS tapes are awesome, since they’re the only versions of the original theatrical versions left anymore,” Stiles said quickly, shutting the case of the first one before moving on to _Empire Strikes Back_. “Most people rent them because—they don’t like how Lucas fucked up the ones he released on DVD.”

When he glanced up at Mr. Hale again, he looked mostly…confused. Stiles didn’t let this stop him, continuing to talk as he moved to the next video. “Especially this really weird cut they did to make it look like Gordo shot first instead of Han to make him more sympathetic, which was fucking _stupid_ , since Han Solo is a scoundrel, not a hero, he’s not supposed to be _sympathetic_ —”

“George Lucas was just too busy circle-jerking with his FX team to care about the integrity of the character,” Mr. Hale interrupted, and Stiles looked up sharply. Mr. Hale’s expression still looked mostly passive and unimpressed, but his eyes had totally lit up.

Stiles let himself grin. “Right? And that fucking inclusion of Hayden Christiansen at the end of _Return of the Jedi?_ Who fucking does that?”

“George Lucas, apparently,” Mr. Hale said drily.

“Fucking George Lucas,” Stiles groused, turning to the screen when it flashed at him. “Your total is seven-fifty.” Mr. Hale handed over a ten, and Stiles quickly made his change while the receipt printed. “They’re due back in five days, so…next Tuesday,” he said, double-checking the dates on the receipt before setting it on top of the movies and handing the stack back to Mr. Hale.

Mr. Hale nodded, eyes on Stiles as he slid the movies off the counter and into his hands. Stiles swallowed, his smile fading under the intense look Mr. Hale was giving him, like he’d never seen Stiles before. He supposed revealing that underneath all of his badassery (not assholeishness, _Scott_ ) he was a huge fucking nerd did that to people.

Then Mr. Hale blinked, face sliding into a cool mask of indifference. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Stiles.”

Stiles shrugged, swallowed. “Maybe.”

The older man’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t say anything else; as he turned to walk out of the store, Stiles let his eyes drift down to Mr. Hale’s ass, which was amazing, as usual—perhaps even better in jeans than in his usual slacks. Stiles was abruptly hit with the image of that ass in his hands, pulling Mr. Hale’s hips into his, rutting and groaning, and just—

“Argh,” he groaned, leaning onto the counter and dropping his head into his arms. He huffed, then reached down to readjust the chubby in his pants.

He really needed to get laid.

*

Thankfully there were no last minute customers, and at ten o’clock exactly, Stiles closed out his already counted-down register, turned off the open sign, deposited the money, and locked the doors behind him.

He spent a few minutes in his car in the parking lot exchanging the Batman t-shirt he’d grabbed off the floor that morning for a plain white one he found stashed in his backseat. He realized why it had been stashed there once he’d pulled the shirt down his torso: the fabric was thin, enough that someone could make out his nipple rings and the shapes of the tattoos on his torso through it, something he would get shit for (mostly from Jackson, but probably from Scott, too) if he wore it to school. Somehow he didn’t think the crowd at the Jungle would mind though.

He rummaged around in his glove compartment for a minute before pulling out a stick of eyeliner and a baggie with several small joints inside. He fished out a joint and lit it, taking a hit or two before sloppily applying the eyeliner. Then he threw the baggie and eyeliner back in his glove department, started the Jeep, and headed for the Jungle.

The high settled in halfway there, a nice buzz that he was sure would get him through long enough to replace it with drunkenness.

Once at the Jungle, it was easy enough to get in using his fake; the bouncer even gave him a nod of familiarity at the door, and Stiles smiled as he headed in, rolling his head on his neck and shaking out his arms; he felt loose and free and _good_.

The first thing he felt was the music—the bass throbbing through the floor and into his chest, the synthetic instrumentation hitting his ears like an afterthought. The strobe lights highlighted the writhing mass on the dance floor in stop-motion flashes to the same beat, interrupted by the swinging laser lights following their own beat regardless of the insistent one thrumming through the crowd. There were people, a lot of them, all heat and sweat and movement, and if Stiles let himself, he could get caught up in the hypnotizing synchronicity of it.

He blinked a few times, focusing instead on individual faces he could make out from his spot. He saw a few people who looked familiar in the we’ve-danced-near-each-other-on-a-semi-consistent-basis kind of way, but no one he really _knew_ , so he drifted over to the bar, ordering himself a rum and coke to combat the sudden dry, cottony feeling in his mouth. He closed his eyes and leaned on his elbows on the bar, letting his body sway and head rock to the beat of the bass.

“Stiles, baby!”

A little too late, Stiles registered that his name had been called and was only halfway turned away from the bar when he was suddenly wrapped into a strong embrace, large amounts of synthetic curly hair finding its way into his mouth. He grimaced, spitting it out, and hugged back at the arm around his chest once he realized that yes, he knew the person hugging him. He recognized the smell of hairspray and makeup and the feel of slightly-too-soft breasts and sequins against his arm: it was the lovely and fabulous Glinda Devine.

He’d met Glinda two years ago, when he’d first been realizing that yeah, he was definitely attracted to guys, and was exploring that kind of attraction. She’d been outside smoking when he’d tried to sneak into the Jungle, called him a “precious baby gay” and immediately took him under her wing.

She was the one who rubbed his back while he puked in the bathroom at the club (after being the one to feed him shots all night,) but she was also the one on speed-dial when Stiles decided to come out to his dad last year. She was fiercely unapologetic about everything she did, and that had brushed off on Stiles, particularly when it came to admitting he liked guys and girls equally. One of her more inspirational speeches had come when Stiles was being more reticent about admitting he liked both, especially to his dad.

“Honey, no. You love who you love, okay? You are perfect and glorious just the way you are. And if you want to eat pussy _and_ suck cock, then you fucking do it, okay. None of this ‘one foot in the closet’ or ‘just experimenting’ bullshit. You own who you are, ‘cause there’s no one else like you in the world.”

Now, she laughed as she pulled away, and Stiles felt himself give her a loose grin in return as she drew herself to her full height, which was rather impressive, if Stiles was honest. Then again, Glinda Devine was 6’3” Wayne Christiansen during the daylight hours, so putting her in platform stilettos was bound to emasculate anyone she stood next to. “I like the hair!” she yelled over the music, rubbing her manicured hand over Stiles’ buzz cut.

“Thanks,” he said absently, as the bartender came back with his drink. He fumbled for his cash, only for Glinda to pull him back and tell the bartender to “Put it on my tab, honey.”

“Aw, thanks!” he said with more enthusiasm, smiling when she leaned down to kiss his cheek.

“No boy with a mouth like yours should ever pay for his own drinks,” she said, pointing a stern finger at him. “Haven’t I taught you anything?”

Stiles rolled his eyes, unable to keep from smiling. “Well, if anyone knows how to get into a boy’s pants, it’s you.”

“Like there’s room for anyone else in those things,” she replied, giving his ass a light slap and squeeze.

“Can’t let them think I’m too easy, now,” Stiles replied with a wink. He turned to his drink, ignoring the straw for the moment and drinking straight out of the glass, working through the residual burn of alcohol on the back of his throat—he was mostly just glad his mouth wasn’t dry anymore.

He was gasping when he put the glass back down, nothing left in it but ice. He mouth felt cold and wet, so he licked at it, but that didn’t help. When he remembered that Glinda was standing next to him, he saw that she was giving him a knowing smirk that he willfully pretended not to understand.

“C’mon, honey,” she said, taking him by the arm and pulling him out to the dance floor to the rest of her entourage. “Look who I found, bitches!”

They were met with loud cheers, what felt like dozens of arms pulling them all different directions, and Stiles let himself get lost in the fray.

*

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed. He was sweaty, his shirt clinging to his skin, but that didn’t really mean much in a place like this, especially since Glinda had given him a couple of shots to throw back, and alcohol always made him flushed. He felt _good_ , though, the world not quite spinning but not quite still on its axis, either, throbbing and pulsing with the flow of bodies and noise in the building. The music seemed to stretch out in an infinite beat, and Stiles wasn’t paying enough attention to it to tell if the other parts of it changed around the beat.

He wasn’t even sure how long he’d been dancing with the person plastered to his back; the guy had seemed to appear out of nowhere, hips moving easily along with Stiles’, hands hot on Stiles’ waist, all firm and strong when Stiles leaned back into him. For a minute, even though it was stupid, crazy, all kinds of ridiculous and pathetic, Stiles imagined that it’s what dancing with Mr. Hale ( _Derek_ , his brain hisses, like that’s something important) would be like.

Because yeah, okay, as much as he liked riling him up, Stiles could also admit that he kind of liked the guy. Even if Mr. Hale was kind of way too strict, or couldn’t really smile to save his life, he was also passionate about his subject—made it fun, even—and had a bit of a dry, sarcastic wit that Stiles was pretty sure only appreciated by Stiles himself, and maybe that girl with the braces who always laughed at Stiles’ jokes, too. Mr. Hale apparently even liked Star Wars, and not the shitty DVD versions, and that went a long way in Stiles’ book.

And what _if_ he was dancing with him right now? Would his hands actually be on Stiles’ waist, or lower, around his hips? Maybe higher, one strong arm wrapping around his chest, the other on his stomach, pressing them together and keeping him there. He might even be the kind of person to mouth gently at the side of Stiles’ neck, gently applying teeth, fingers wandering up to brush lightly but purposefully over a nipple, his bulge pressing into Stiles’ ass, firm and insistent…

Stiles inhaled sharply, eyes snapping open. The strobe lights assaulted his eyes, but he didn’t care, twisting in his partner’s arms to look at him, suddenly _needing_ to know, make _sure_ that it wasn’t actually Derek he was grinding up against.

He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed when he saw the guy’s face, (surprised as Stiles’ turned, then pleased when he realized Stiles wasn’t going anywhere,) and determined that no, this was definitely not Derek. Mr. Hale. Whatever.

This guy was a bit smaller in the shoulders and thicker in the waist, had a full beard rather than scruff, dark brown eyes and less defined cheekbones but still rather handsome. His mouth was open slightly, looking wet and inviting, so Stiles tipped up, capturing it. His partner went with it easily, sloppily giving back what he got.

When Stiles pulled back, the other guy followed after him a bit, then opened his eyes, smiling slowly. “Hi,” he said, pushing in even closer, one leg working its way between Stiles to press their groins together.

“Hi,” Stiles responded, grinding down a bit. The other guy clutched at Stiles’ back, twisting his damp shirt and the slick skin beneath. Stiles trailed his hands up the guy’s arms, over his shoulders and into his hair. It was short around the sides and long on top, flopping onto his forehead. Stiles wondered idly if he had styled it that way on purpose, or if dancing and sweating had made it fall over the course of the evening.

Then he ducked down, mouth near Stiles’ ear. “Can I buy you a drink?”

Stiles smirked. “Depends on the drink.”

*

His name was Justin, and he was an undeclared sophomore at the college the next town over who’d come down with a few friends. (Stiles claimed to be a freshman at the community college in town, not sure how he would react to a high school kid. If Stiles was honest, though, the guy didn’t really seem to care.)

He wasn’t particularly funny even though he tried. He liked to drink vodka and cranberry and smoke Camel Lights. He didn’t kiss very well but definitely had the body to make up for it.

Stiles rather enjoyed the way he was pressed all along Stiles, crowding him into the wall outside the club where they’d shared a smoke. He pulled the leg-in-between-Stiles’ trick again, pressing him further into the wall, trailing his mouth down to Stiles’ neck and biting gently. Stiles gasped, arching into the feeling, tipping his head back to hint for more, and thankfully Justin understood. There was a rough exhalation that might’ve been a chuckle, and then he bit down, _hard_.

“Fuck,” Stiles gasped, clutching at the back of his head to keep him there, and Justin pushed in even closer. His hands roamed under Stiles’ shirt, reaching up to play with his nipple rings, and then he rocked his hips, grinding their dicks together in a way that made Stiles hiss.

Justin let out that little exhalation/chuckle thing, then pulled away from Stiles’ neck. He found Stiles’ eyes, smirking, and then reached down, pressing his palm over the bulge in Stiles’ jeans briefly before stepping away from Stiles’ completely. “Do you—is there somewhere we can go?” he asked.

Stiles blinked a few times, trying to clear his vision a bit and fully comprehend what he was asking. Oh, yeah. Private. Public indecency was not something he wanted on his record; people would start thinking he was some kind of pervert or something.

“Yeah, my—we can go to my car,” he said, looking over Justin’s shoulder to the parking lot. He could just make out his Jeep on the edge of it.

“You don’t have an apartment or something?” Justin asked, sounding a little less than thrilled, but Stiles was _so_ not going there. Even though his dad was working the overnight shift, Stiles could never be too careful.

“No, I—my roommate,” he lied, “he’s kind of lame, doesn’t like to be disturbed after eleven—”

Justin didn’t seem miffed enough to resist when Stiles started pulling him in the direction of his car, though, so there was that.

There was a bit of stumbling, because Stiles was tipsy but Justin was drunk. He also apparently couldn’t keep his hands off Stiles—his back, his waist, his mouth on the back of Stiles’ neck—and Stiles couldn’t really help but let him do it, staggering to a stop every now and then to pull him around for a kiss.

But then, finally, they’d made it to the car, and Stiles fumbled for his keys, distracted by the hand on his groin and mouth on his neck. It took a couple of tries to get it in the lock, and then, _finally_ , they were tumbling inside, Stiles with a hand in the collar of Justin’s shirt as he dragged him into the passenger seat.

“Ow, fuck—” Stiles bit out when the gear shift jammed into his back. He pushed Justin away, saying, “Okay, hang on, we gotta—resituate, c’mon—”

He climbed into the back, shoving various detritus to the floor, giggling a little as Justin followed and nearly fell into him.

“You need a better car for this,” Justin teased, as they worked to arrange themselves; Stiles pushed him down, impressing himself with how easily he climbed on top without bodily injury.

“Hey, don’t diss the Jeep,” he pouted, tucking his knee between the back of the Jeep and Justin’s hip, settling his ass more firmly onto Justin’s groin; he smirked at the feel of his still-half-hard cock pressing back. Patting at the back window, he added, “She’s gotten me through a lot, you know.”

Justin just smirked and grabbed Stiles’ hips, rocking his own up, and Stiles grinned back, letting his hands drop down to brace himself on Justin’s chest. The horniness that had simmered down slightly on the trek to the Jeep flared back up full-force, and Stiles worked himself into a mostly-coordinated rocking motion, grinning as Justin’s slight breathlessness deteriorated into panting.

“C’mere,” Justin said, reaching up to Stiles’ shoulders to pull him down, mouth searching; Stiles let him pull, but tucked his face into Justin’s shoulder rather than kiss him, and Justin took the hint, kissing and then biting at Stiles’ neck.

Stiles was just about to consider undoing some zippers to get to some real action going when a sudden buzz jolted between them.

“The fuck—” Justin said as Stiles sat back, the buzzing continuing in Stiles’ pocket.

“Hang on, lemme just—” He dug in his pocket, his hand fumbling with the smooth sides of his phone in between the tight confines of the fabric. It was enough of a struggle that by the time he’d managed to get a firm grasp on it, the buzzing stopped. Not two seconds later, it started buzzing again, and Stiles pulled it out. “Oh my god, hold _on_ ,” he told his phone, squinting at the bright screen. He made out Lydia’s name and face, and frowned as he pressed the button to take the call.

Justin opened his mouth, but Stiles just held up a finger. Justin leaned up, biting gently at the tip and then sucking it into his mouth.

Stiles ignored it. “Hey, what’s—?”

“Can you come pick me up?” Lydia cut off, sounding like she was crying or had been in the recent past.

Stiles sat up straighter, ignoring Justin grunting at the extra pressure on his stomach and using the excuse to pull his finger out of Justin’s mouth. “What’s wrong?”

“Can you just come pick me up?” Lydia snapped. She hiccupped, then added softly, “Please.”

“I—” He looked down at Justin, who was looking up at him expectantly, hands on Stiles’ thighs. Stiles wasn’t really hard anymore—crying just wasn’t exactly a thing that did it for him—but he was so close to an orgasm with another person. Literally sitting right on top of it.

But Lydia needed him.

“Yeah, I can come pick you up,” he said, ignoring Justin’s disbelieving eyebrow-raise. “Where are you?” he asked, clambering off of him.

“Hey, what—where are you going?” Justin said in the background, and Stiles waved him off, awkwardly falling into the front seat, his legs draping over the gear shift and his back against the door.

“I’m—I don’t know,” Lydia said with a sniff.

Stiles knocked his head back against the window, only because it was closer than the steering wheel. “Dammit, Lydia.”

“I’m sorry, okay?” she said, voice nearing a sob. “I don’t—” Her voice went thready, but then she caught herself, took a deep breath, and came back angry. “Jackson and I went to this _stupid_ party, but then he _left_ me.”

 _“What?”_ He shifted again, struggling to get his legs into the wheel-well. “That dickbag, I’m going to—”

“Stiles, please, just _come get me_.”

Finally, he managed to get his feet near the pedals and keys in the ignition. “Well that’d be a lot easier if I _knew where you were_.”

“Where are you? The Jungle?”

“Yeah—”

“Okay, I’ll—I’ll just use the GPS on my phone and figure out reverse directions. I’ll text you.”

And then she hung up.

“Lydia— _Lydia_!” he said to dead air, and then huffed, dropping his head onto his steering wheel. “God _dammit_ Jackson.”

Suddenly, Justin cleared his throat, and Stiles jumped, turning to look back at him. He had sat up, and was leaning forward into the space between the front seats, looking severely unimpressed. Stiles grimaced.

“Shit, I’m sorry, man, but like—one of my friends, her boyfriend ditched her at this party, so—”

“I heard,” Justin said flatly, before crawling over the gearshift into the passenger seat. His hair was a bit of a mess, shirt rucked up a little around his stomach, but didn’t bother to fix either, instead reaching down to obviously readjust the bulge in his pants.

Stiles groaned. “Oh, come on, don’t—I’m sorry, okay?” Justin still looked a little pissed, and Stiles rushed to make amends. “Listen, it’s not that you’re not hot, or anything. _Definitely_ not. Like, you’re exactly my type, really,” he added, gesturing to basically all of Justin. Well, his current type at least. “But it’s just—”

But Justin was shaking his head, reaching for the handle in the door. “Whatever.”

Stiles opened his mouth to try and argue for something else, only to realize there was nothing else he particularly wanted from him. Possibly sad, but definitely true. Instead, Stiles just watched as Justin dropped out of the Jeep, slammed the door behind him, and headed back to the Jungle, looking entirely done with everything Stiles chose to be.

Stiles groaned, dropping his head onto his steering wheel again. After thunking his head against the wheel a couple of times, he turned to his phone, pulling up his texts.

_To: Jackson  
DUDE WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR PROBLEM_

He wasn’t expecting any response, so when it buzzed in his hand a few seconds after sending, he jumped. It was only Lydia, though, with directions to the house party she was at. It was across town, a good twenty minutes to get over there and then more besides to get out of town to the suburb it was in.

With yet another groan bemoaning his lost night, Stiles started the Jeep and headed out.

*

Once he was actually in the neighborhood, he found the house easily enough, what with all the people standing around outside of it and music loud enough that Stiles could hear it inside the Jeep. (He was surprised the cops hadn’t been called for noise violations, seriously.) He pulled up to the curb and had barely put the parking brake on when the passenger door opened and Lydia climbed in.

“Hey,” she said perkily, like she hadn’t been crying half an hour ago—like Stiles hadn’t driven nearly forty-five minutes (he got a little lost, shut up) to come pick her up because her boyfriend had left her at a party with no other ride home.

“Hey,” Stiles said shortly, watching her settle in her seat. She rearranged her skirt delicately, smoothing it over her fish-netted thighs. When Stiles didn’t move to put the car back into drive, she looked at him expectantly, and he gave her the same look back.

“What?” she said after a few moments, and Stiles scoffed.

“Oh, so we’re not talking about how Jackson’s a giant douchebag? Okay.” He turned to shift the car back into drive. “No, that’s cool.” He checked to make sure none of the drunk people had headed into the street, then started pulling out. “It’s not like it ruined my night, or anything.”

“You didn’t have to come pick me up,” she snapped.

“Oh? And what the hell else was I supposed to do?”

She huffed, crossing her arms over her ample chest; she knew as well as Stiles did that there was little she could ask for that he wouldn’t give her. Stiles shook his head in disbelief, pulling out of the suburb and pointing the Jeep toward Lydia’s house.

When it became clear that she wasn’t going to talk until she was damn well ready to, Stiles turned the radio back up, ignoring her disgusted look at the hip-hop that poured out. She seemed to understand, though, and didn’t try to change it.

They were almost to her house when she finally spoke up. “I tried to take the keys from him.”

“What?” Stiles reached and turned the radio back down, glancing over at her. She was looking out the window, arms crossed over her chest.

She sighed. “He was way too drunk to drive, so I tried to take the keys from him. He wanted to go to some other party, but I just wanted to go home. When I told him he shouldn’t be driving anyway, he wouldn’t listen and tried to get me in the car with him. When I wouldn’t get in, he just…drove off.”

She wasn’t crying again, but Stiles knew it was only from a monumental effort on her part. Instinctively, Stiles lifted his hand from the gear shift, blindly reaching for hers. She took it, squeezing hard once; then she let their fingers twine so he could loosely hold the gear shift around her hand.

“I’m sorry your boyfriend is an asshole,” he said, squeezing her hand once, and she let out a wet laugh.

“Yeah. Me too.”

Stiles pulled up to Lydia’s house, all of its many windows dark. It looked very empty and un-lived in, and Stiles wondered if either parent was even home. Instead of asking, he put the parking brake on, while Lydia looked up at the house with trepidation.

“Do you want me to come in with you?” he asked, knowing how much being alone could suck.

She sniffed and wiped furiously under her eyes, and Stiles pretended not to notice. Then she swallowed, looking down at her knees, and said, “Yeah, that’d be—that’d be nice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention this on the previous chapters, but I update more frequently (but with smaller parts) on my tumblr. It's all the same story, I just combine the parts I post on Tumblr into the longer chapters here. [Here](http://dinglehoppersaplenty.tumblr.com/tagged/the-boy-with-the-wolf-tattoo) is the link if you're interested.


	4. Chapter 3

The next morning, Stiles woke up to the blaring of staticky hard rock coming from an alarm clock, with strawberry blonde hair in his mouth and no feeling in his right arm.

Lydia and Stiles both groaned, rolling away from each other; Lydia reached up and slammed her hand around on top of the clock, while Stiles ended up rolling himself out of bed, letting out an unmanly squawk as he hit the ground with a jarring thump that sent pain ricocheting through his brain and pins and needles through his arm.

“Fuck!” he groaned, squirming to face the cool darkness under Lydia’s bed, while Lydia rolled over to eyebrow condescendingly at him from above.

She still looked perfect, of course. Even though last night “have a drink with me, Stiles” had turned into “drink this whole bottle of schnapps with me, Stiles, and then let me cry and yell at you about how my boyfriend sucks but I still love him anyway,” and then they’d slept on it, she still looked like she could crawl out of bed and end up on the runway and no one would blink.

Well, depending on the runway.

“What the fuck time is it,” Stiles muttered, wincing when the use of his voice made the pain spike in his head again. “It’s not even light out!”

“I have my alarm set for six every morning,” Lydia replied around a yawn, the shaved part of her head pillowed on her arm as she looked down at Stiles.

“Whyyy,” he moaned, even though he knew why; while he thought she still looked good—or at least acceptable, smudged eyeliner and messy hair and all—she would never let herself be seen in public like that, and it took time to create the image of Lydia Martin that she let out into the world.

They were both silent for a bit; Stiles closed his eyes, flexing his hand against the pins and needles feeling and wishing he had a pillow to bury his face into, wondering if he could get back to sleep while Lydia was getting ready. He twitched a little when Lydia poked at his neck, opening his eyes as the dull throb lingered after she’d pulled her hand back.

“I have a hickey, don’t I?” She sighed and nodded, smiling into her arm, and Stiles groaned, bringing a hand up to touch the tender area. “Is it bad?”

“Not too horrible, but definitely noticeable,” she said with a shrug. While Stiles lightly pressed on the mark, mapping out its shape, she rolled her lips into her mouth, thinking about something. Then she added, “I wish Jackson being a douchebag hadn’t ruined your night,” which was about the closest thing to an apology he was going to get.

He waved a hand. “Yeah, it’s…whatever. Major suckage, but. You know. Shit happens.”

She snorted indelicately. “Yeah, you could say that.”

Closing his eyes again, Stiles gave her a crooked smile, silence descending around them.

Then the alarm clock went off again, the sound of static more prevalent than the song it was supposed to be playing. Stiles jumped, almost knocking his head into the nightstand he was lying in front of, while Lydia dragged herself up and over to turn the alarm off for good. Then she flopped back down, looking down at Stiles expectantly, and he made an inquiring face.

“If you need to take a shower you should probably go first because I tend to use all the hot water.”

“Only because you bathe in the fiery springs of Mount Doom,” Stiles retorted, remembering when Jackson had once told him about trying to surprise Lydia in the shower, only to nearly get his dick burnt off with how hot the water was. But then Stiles took stock of himself; sure, he felt grimy, like he’d gone to bed after dancing up a sweat and drinking and having a girl cry on him, but he was reasonably sure he didn’t smell bad. And he had cologne and more clothes in the Jeep if he did. So he sighed and said, “Nah, I’m good.”

She nodded, then pulled herself out of bed. Stiles watched, unable to really help himself, as she walked around the room in nothing but her underwear and a t-shirt he suspected may have belonged to Jackson at some point, and wondered for a moment how their relationship had come to this level.

If you’d told eighth-grade-him that one day he’d wake up in a t-shirt and boxers next to a similarly-clad Lydia Martin, he probably would have laughed and given you a weird look for pretending to be from the future. He would have laughed even harder if you’d told him you hadn’t spent the night before doing anything dirty.

(Man, the things he would tell his eighth grade self, though. Like, “Don’t let Mom’s death fuck you up so much,” and “Lydia’s pussy will be the best one you’ve ever tasted, but she’s more fucked up than you think and she’ll always be in love with Jackson anyway so you should probably give up now and save yourself some time.” But anyway.)

“Are you just gonna stay down there the entire time?” Lydia asked when she reached the door, a pile of clothes in her hands.

“Yes. I’m trying to see if my mutant powers have come in so I can phase through the floor.” He made jazz hands for effect. “Maybe proximity will make it easier.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’ll come wake you up when I’m done.”

*

However, by the time Lydia came back, Stiles had not only managed to haul himself up off the floor and downstairs (mostly because he’d discovered a need to piss that couldn’t be ignored,) but he’d made it to his Jeep and gotten around to getting dressed (in the same jeans as the day before and another shirt he found in his backseat) and had smoked a cigarette and two-thirds of a blunt.

She stopped short in her doorway, the smell of ginger wafting into the room through the thick haze of weed, and Stiles sheepishly took the joint out of his mouth.

“Uh…I saved you some?” he said tightly around a lungful of smoke, offering her the joint, and she narrowed her eyes.

He watched her carefully as she came fully into the room, shutting the door behind her and tossing her dirty clothes towards her closet. She didn’t look at him as she did this, nor when she reached for her phone where it was charging on her nightstand. As she looked through it, she held her hand out, fingers posed to take the joint.

Stiles exhaled, then carefully transferred the joint from his fingers to hers, asking, “Any word from Jackson?”

Her lips pinched. “No.” She set the phone back on her nightstand as she brought the joint up to her lips, inhaling deeply and holding the smoke in as she offered it back to Stiles. Stiles took it, tapping the ash into the mug he’d been using as an ash tray before bringing it back up to his own lips; he grimaced when he tasted the wax of Lydia’s lipstick.

“You know, I really hate him sometimes,” Lydia said, sprawling on her stomach behind him. Stiles lifted the mug from between the cradle of his legs as the movement jostled him, and he exhaled noisily, offering the joint back to her once she’d settled.

“I think everyone does, honestly,” he said as she plucked it from his fingers; he watched her carefully as she inhaled, smooth and controlled. “You should just give up on him, really.”

“And what, run away with you?” she said as she exhaled a cloud of smoke, wearing a wry smile.

Stiles chuckled as he waved off her offer of the joint. “Nah, you’re too good for me.” Lydia raised a disbelieving eyebrow, tapping the end of the joint against the mug when Stiles offered it. “Now if you ran off with Allison, you might have to let me come, just to watch.”

Lydia rolled her eyes but didn’t comment, instead sucking on the joint once more.

*

Even after a quick stop at McDonald’s, they got to school a good ten minutes earlier than they needed to be. Stiles was feeling good, all loose and happy and full of delicious greasy breakfast with Lydia giggling next to him as they headed into the building.

“I want a cinnamon twist,” Lydia announced, wrapping her hand around Stiles’ wrist and pulling him toward the cafeteria, where they were serving their own version of breakfast: cinnamon twists that they made very morning, and anything else available in the a la carte room.

“Why didn’t you get a cinnamon thing at McDonald’s?” Stiles asked, letting her pull him along anyway, brushing past other students and a few teachers who were heading in the opposite direction to their classrooms.

“Those totally aren’t the same at _all_ and you know it.” Stiles rolled his eyes, but knew she had a point. And hey, maybe they’d run into Scott and Allison in the cafeteria, they were known to be especially attached at the hip on days after Date Nights and liked to come in early to spend time together.

But then Stiles ran into Mr. Hale. Literally.

Now, Stiles had a dubious relationship with balance on the best of days, never mind days when he’d gotten high to cover up his hangover, so when he hit the _wall of muscle_ that Mr. Hale was apparently made of, he bounced off like a goddamn rag doll, landing on his ass before he really even knew what had hit him.

Then he looked up, saw Mr. Hale’s frowning face, and promptly burst into laughter, partly because he had just fallen on his ass, and partly because _of course_ he would run into Mr. Hale right now, of course. Lydia, who had managed to stay upright, started laughing as well, quickly slapping her hand over her mouth and trying to look contrite when Mr. Hale turned his judgmental look on her.

She cleared her throat, smile still tugging at her lips, as she said, “Good morning, Mr. Hale.”

“Good morning, Ms. Martin.” He turned to look back at Stiles, who had made no effort to stand. “Stiles.”

Stiles gave him a lazy grin. “Hey, sourface!” he said, propping himself up on his arms but not really making any move to stand. He kind of liked the view, if he was honest. “How’s it hanging?” Stiles asked when Mr. Hale didn’t say anything, using his vantage point to look at the bulge in Mr. Hale’s pants.

Mr. Hale crossed his arms over his chest, which really only served to highlight his enormous biceps more than anything, and raised an eyebrow, which was, yeah, a little intimidating. “Stiles, are you feeling okay this morning?”

“I’m feeling great, actually, thanks for asking. And yourself?”

Mr. Hale narrowed his eyes, then bent down to get a closer look at Stiles. Stiles leaned back a bit, surprised by the sudden proximity, not entirely sure what he was looking for, but kept eye contact. Especially since Mr. Hale seemed very intent upon looking into his eyes. Which, wow, Mr. Hale had really pretty eyes.

“You have really pretty eyes, did you know that?” Stiles said, ignoring the downright guffaw Lydia let out when he said it. “Seriously, they’re like—” He made an exploding motion with his hand, complete with sound effect. “Like, really awesome and really pretty.”

Mr. Hale sniffed—did he have a cold?—and then his face hardened. “Stiles, are you high?”

Stiles and Lydia both froze, Lydia’s eyes going wide over Mr. Hale’s shoulder. Stiles opened his mouth, his throat sticking for a moment before he could think of a way out of this. “I—well, that depends on how you define high, because as you can see,” he gestured to the ground he was currently sprawled across, “I’m very low, right now—”

He could see it was a lost cause, though (should’ve known, that trick never worked on his father, either) as Mr. Hale straightened back up into his now incredibly intimidating full height, his face passive. “Mr. Stilinski, if you’ll come with me.”

“I—but—”

He didn’t really have much choice in the matter when Mr. Hale hauled him up by the front of his shirt, barely letting Stiles get his feet under him before he was dragging Stiles down the hall, Stiles protesting the whole way.

“Hey, what’re you—I _can_ walk, you know—”

“Mr. Hale, is that really necessary—”

He abruptly stopped and turned on Lydia, who took a step back but held her chin high. (Stiles couldn’t help but smirk with pride.) Then Mr. Hale said calmly, but no less threateningly, “Ms. Martin. Unless you want to spend the next week in detention—or worse, suspension—I suggest you get to class.” There was a knowing glint in his eye that said he knew just as much as the two of them that she was high, too; it was just Stiles’ unfortunate luck that he had pressed so many of Mr. Hale’s buttons before this.

Lydia was unafraid though, and opened her mouth to probably tell Mr. Hale exactly where he could shove his detention, but Stiles cut in. “Lydia, don’t.” Her eyes snapped to Stiles’, slightly red but not unfocused—more like seething from being told what to do—and Stiles jerked his head. “Just go to class,” he added, hoping he was properly conveying his silent message of _it’ll be okay_.

Lydia snapped her mouth shut, but narrowed her eyes at Mr. Hale. He gave her an unimpressed and impatient look back, and with a huff through her nose, Lydia turned on her heel and headed toward her classroom.

Mr. Hale renewed his grip on Stiles’ collar and continued hauling him away.

“You know, I don’t think it’s appropriate for a teacher to be handling a student this way—”

“Shut up,” Mr. Hale snapped, opening the door to what looked like a break room and shoving Stiles inside.

Stiles stumbled, then caught himself on the small table in the center of the equally small room, which, upon closer inspection, seemed to be where they kept textbooks when they weren’t in use. “Huh.” It wasn’t the principal’s office, so there was that. But then it was also a small, enclosed space where no one would likely hear him scream, either.

“Sit down,” Mr. Hale said, and Stiles found himself scrambling to do so, sitting down in the closest chair, one made of dark blue plastic and immediately uncomfortable, while Mr. Hale shut the door behind them.

“Would you care to explain yourself?” Mr. Hale said from behind him, and Stiles really wished he’d picked the opposite chair just so he wouldn’t have Mr. Hale behind him anymore. He suddenly remembered the night before, when he’d imagined dancing with Mr. Hale behind him, and felt his neck grow hot. (Wow, he was pathetic, wasn’t he? Especially because he didn’t even really _like_ the guy.)

Stiles cleared his throat, pushing the memory away. “Well, you just told me to shut up, so I figured—”

“ _Stiles_.” That growl was totally not sexy, nope. Not at all. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t take you down to the principal’s office right now,” he said as he came around the table, arms crossed over his chest.

“Uh…because you can’t get enough of my hot bod, and a suspension would only keep us apart?” Stiles tried, only for Mr. Hale to glare at him.

“Inappropriate remarks are not the way out of this,” he replied, but that wasn’t a no, exactly, and Stiles made sure to file that little bit of information away for later use.

Stiles sighed. “I don’t know! What do you want to hear? That it was just this once, and I’ll never do it again?” That had worked on Miss Beaumont last year, but Stiles got the feeling Mr. Hale would be much more difficult to please.

“The truth would be nice.”

Chuckling, Stiles shook his head and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “You don’t _actually_ want to know the truth, Mr. Hale.” He sighed, letting his arms swing at his sides. “No one ever really does.” And wow, could he sound more like a teenage cliché?

The eyebrow Mr. Hale arched seemed to be asking the same thing, so Stiles huffed, bringing his hands up to the table in front of him, eyes focused on his left hand playing with the strings on the bracelet Allison had made for him on his right wrist. “I just mean that—even if I told you that being high actually helps me focus sometimes, you won’t believe me, because you already hate me.”

Mr. Hale sighed. “I don’t hate you.” Stiles resisted rolling his eyes, but only just barely. “I just…don’t really understand you,” he said, bracing his hands on the back of the other chair at the table, and Stiles didn’t even bother to resist that time, because who was the cliché now?

He wasn’t wearing a cardigan today, Stiles noted when Mr. Hale’s hands clenched around the top of the chair; just a white button-up with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Stiles tried not to get distracted by the thickness of his fingers, the veins in his forearms, the dark dusting of hair on the back of his arms. He thought focusing on the blood-red tie swinging free would be a bit better, but no, because then Stiles just thought of using it as a gag, or maybe makeshift handcuffs. (He bet Mr. Hale was secretly a kinky fucker.)

“Stiles, are you even listening to me?”

Blinking, Stiles looked up further and focused on Mr. Hale’s unfairly gorgeous face. His eyebrow was raised, and while yes, he was wearing a Serious Business face, he didn’t really look mad. “Am I listening? Not really.” Mr. Hale’s eyes narrowed, but before he could say anything, Stiles continued, “But,” he raised a finger, “I bet I can tell you what you were saying.” He straightened in his chair, making sure to look Mr. Hale in the eyes. “I’m a smart kid, right, so why am I wasting my life away? If I would just apply myself, adjust my attitude a little, have some more discipline, I could succeed brilliantly!” He raised an eyebrow. “Am I close?”

Mr. Hale’s lip curled, so Stiles figured he’d hit it pretty close, if not right on the head. He scoffed and leaned forward on his elbows, looking down at his hands. “You think you’re the first teacher to have had this kind of interest in me?”

He heard Mr. Hale scoff at that, surprisingly enough, and looked up to see him shaking his head and wearing a wry smile. “What?”

He scoffed again, head still shaking. “Nothing.”

But no, Stiles was intrigued now, a triumphant thrill running under his skin, because he’d definitely struck a nerve there. “Mr. Hale, are you implying that you have ulterior motives in your hatred of me?” Perhaps his teasing earlier hadn’t been completely off base.

 _“I don’t hate you,”_ he repeated with a scowl. “You’re just a pain in my ass.”

Stiles cackled, leaning back in his seat and threading his fingers behind his head. “Ah, I love hearing teachers swear. It keeps me young.” He raised an eyebrow. “Still didn’t answer the question, though.”

His mouth set in a firm line, Mr. Hale simply said, “No,” and moved to sit down across from him.

Stiles wanted to push it, needle at him until he found something, but he knew enough from their detentions that Mr. Hale was shut down right now, and pushing would only get him to lock up further.

Instead Stiles breathed out heavily through his nose, letting his hands fall from behind his head. “Okay, so you don’t hate me.” He paused for a moment, backtracking to the topic before that. “I still don’t understand why you’re trying so hard. I mean—you’re not the first teacher to try to—” He waved his hand around. “—change me, or whatever. If none of them succeeded, what makes you think you will?”

When Mr. Hale said nothing, Stiles started shaking his head and moved to stand; Mr. Hale raised an eyebrow that kept him in his seat. The five-minute warning bell rang distantly above them, and Stiles wanted to say something like, “You know we both have classes to get to,” but Mr. Hale was looking at him so intently he lost his nerve.

Then Mr. Hale asked, “Have you applied to any colleges?”

Stiles blanched. “I—no?” His father had been leaving brochures on the kitchen table lately, to the community college in town and a few state colleges, and Stiles had been taking them to his room and shoving them in his desk drawer. (He’d probably apply to the community college. Eventually.)

“And I take it that’s not a sports injury,” he said, nodding to Stiles’ neck.

He felt the pain of the bruise before he realized he’d even moved to touch it, the fantasy of Mr. Hale dancing behind him abruptly slamming into him again. He snapped his hand back down and scowled. “Not that it’s any of your business,” he said pointedly, “but I went out with some friends last night.”

“Ah,” Mr. Hale said with a nod, leaning back in his own chair. “I see.”

“Is this going somewhere, or are you just prying into my personal life to waste more time?” Stiles snapped.

Mr. Hale raised an eyebrow, and Stiles had a very bad feeling about this.

*

“Dude, there you are!” Scott said as he slammed open the door from the cafeteria. Stiles didn’t look up from his spot on the edge of the loading dock, waiting for his cigarette to catch, his second since coming out after escaping third period. The high had worn off sometime during second, and now he was just trying not to feel so tired and pissed off.

“Lydia told Allison what happened this morning,” Scott said as he came to sit by Stiles. Stiles shut his lighter with a metallic click, shoving it back into his pocket as he inhaled deeply. “Are you okay? You haven’t been answering my texts, I thought you might’ve been at in-house or something.”

“My phone died in first period,” Stiles replied around a mouthful of smoke. “I didn’t get the chance to charge it last night.” He exhaled completely, then added, “I’m not sure I’d want it on right now anyway,” before taking another drag.

Scott frowned with worry, turning to face Stiles with one leg over the edge, the other folded up between them. “Dude, how bad is it? I mean, you’re obviously not suspended or anything—”

Stiles sighed out his lungful of smoke. “Mr. Hale gave me a choice. Even though it really wasn’t any kind of choice,” he added darkly. Scott was giving him his curious puppy look, so he sighed again and explained. “Option A: he brings me to the principal’s office, the police get involved, I definitely get a suspension and a probable mark on my record, or...” He took another drag and blew it out through his nose. “Option B: he calls my dad to discuss a kind of ‘community service’ that basically entails my indentured servitude in exchange for him not telling my dad about the weed.” He rolled his eyes, irritably flicking ash off the end of his cigarette.

“Dude,” Scott said in awe. “That’s a harsh choice.”

Stiles snorted. “Tell me about it.” He tipped backward until he was mostly lying on the ground, feet still hanging off the edge. “It’s fucking blackmail, is what that is.”

“I wouldn’t really call it _blackmail_ —”

Stiles shook his head against the ground, feeling tiny pieces of gravel grind into the back of his head, continuing as if he hadn’t heard Scott say anything. “The guy’s just a dick, who enjoys torturing innocent teenagers—”

Scott guffawed, and Stiles gave him a dark look. It didn’t erase the smile on his face though. “Sorry, dude, but—do you hear yourself? You’re actually pissed off that this guy _didn’t suspend you_ and _isn’t_ getting the cops involved.”

“My dad is the _sheriff_.”

“You know what I mean,” Scott said, kicking at Stiles’ foot, and yeah, he did. “Like, they probably would’ve searched your locker and your car and shit.”

Stiles stared at him for a few moments. “Dude. I didn’t even think of that.”

He didn’t keep anything in his locker—he wasn’t a complete idiot—and he knew that it was within his rights to deny them access to his Jeep, but telling them not to look would have been reason enough to make them get the dogs. Being high at the time would have probably given them enough probable cause anyway. And even if they hadn’t searched the Jeep, they still would have searched _him_ , and they probably would’ve found the cigarettes he wasn’t supposed to have, and the fake ID, and it all would have just…really sucked.

But still. He wasn’t happy about having to do…whatever Mr. Hale was going to make him do.

He took another drag of his cigarette. “Whatever. Has anyone heard from Jackson today?”

It wasn’t his smoothest subject change, but Scott, the wonderful awesome amazing best buddy that he was, went with it.

“Not that I know of. I was thinking about going to check his house after school with Danny. You wanna come? You could always pick locks better than me.”

“Doesn’t Danny have a key by now?” Stiles asked, bringing his cigarette up to take another drag.

“Pretty sure the only one outside of Jackson’s family that has a key is Lydia, and she’s refusing to even talk about him right now.” He shrugged, one hand grasping the toe of his shoe. “Allison said she was gonna try to take her to a movie or something, and that they’re lucky they’ve got derby tomorrow.”

Stiles nodded a bit, exhaling and flicking ash; the wind blew it back onto his jeans, and he scowled as he brushed it off the black fabric. Derby was good for the girls, helped them get out aggression and all that shit. Stiles loved watching even if it made him terrified of them for a good three hours afterward.

“So,” Scott prompted after a moment. “You coming?”

It was tempting; Jackson’s house was honestly a bit of a breeze to break into, and if he was home Stiles could personally deliver the chewing out he deserved. But Stiles was about 87% certain that his dad had probably left a voicemail by now that told him to come directly home, do not pass go, do not collect 200 dollars.

“Nah,” Stiles said, examining the cherry on his cigarette for a moment. “I should probably go home and see what my dad has to say,” he said, before bringing it up to inhale. Scott gave him a sympathetic face that Stiles acknowledged with a shrug as he exhaled smoke. “When you find him, though, text me or something.”

Scott nodded, and they sat in silence for a few moments, until Stiles added, “I hope he has the hangover from hell.”

Scott snorted, nudging Stiles’ thigh with his foot, and Stiles grinned back at him.

*

Stiles and his father had a very tenuous “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” kind of relationship. So long as neither of them asked very detailed questions, neither of them would have to say anything that might stress the other out.

Like, so long as Stiles didn’t ask what his dad ate for lunch, he could assume that it was a mildly healthy turkey sandwich instead of a hamburger. If his dad didn’t ask what he and Scott got up to when they went out to the Preserve for hours at a time, Stiles wouldn’t have to tell him they got stoned out of their minds. If his dad never asked what happened to the college brochures, Stiles wouldn’t have to tell him they were stuffed in a drawer in his room. If Stiles pretended not to notice the empty whiskey glass by his father’s elbow when he did some of his work at home, he didn’t have to know what made his father drink it.

It was a convenient loophole to their “Honesty Only” policy that had been instated right before Stiles’ sophomore year, when he and Scott had been caught hanging out with some older burnout kids who had started setting some trash cans on fire. And by “caught” he really means “taken into custody and almost charged with vandalism,” because he and Scott hadn’t had a car or been able to run fast enough. (Well, technically Stiles had been able to, but then Scott’s asthma had acted up and he wasn’t gonna leave his buddy behind, no way.)

The questions had been explicit for a while—“where are you going, who are you going with, what will you be doing, when will you be home,” that kind of thing—but after a while, once Stiles started volunteering the wheres and the whos, stopped pushing curfews, got a job, got most of his grades back up to decent levels, his father stopped asking so many questions every time. There had also been the convenience of his dad getting distracted with the reopening of a case about a six-year-old house fire, which had turned out to be a bust but was still good timing.

(The fact that Stiles stopped hanging out with those guys had probably helped too. It wasn’t like Stiles actually _enjoyed_ watching other people light shit on fire and then laugh like idiots, and he’d never had the urge to do it himself, and the look of utter disappointment and defeat on his dad’s face when he’d seen Stiles in the holding cell had been enough to cure Stiles of vandalism for a lifetime.)

Things had _really_ changed when Stiles had come out to him last year, enough that his dad trusted him enough to take night shifts again, and they had gradually begun to run on assumptions and mostly-truths. It wasn’t perfect, but it worked for the most part.

However, the look on his dad’s face when he got home from school gave Stiles a Very Bad Feeling about the nature of their relationship anymore.

Stiles pretended not to notice it as he headed past his dad and toward the kitchen, tensing internally as he felt his father stand and follow him.

“I got an interesting call from one of your teachers today,” his dad said as Stiles opened the fridge.

“Oh, hello to you too, Dad,” Stiles said, before taking a swig of milk straight from the carton.

“Use a glass,” he reprimanded, even though Stiles was already reaching for one. His dad sighed and crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against the doorway to the kitchen and watching as Stiles carefully poured himself a glass of milk. “Is there anything you want to tell me about the last few weeks at school?”

Stiles gulped down half the glass, then smacked his lips, carefully not looking at his dad as he turned to put the carton away. “Not really, no.”

“Stiles…” he said warningly, while Stiles began getting out the ingredients for a peanut butter sandwich, mostly for something to do with his hands.

“ _Dad_ ,” he said, opening the jar and beginning to spread peanut butter across the bread.

His dad sighed again. “So you don’t think the fact that you’ve had detention almost every single day since school started is note-worthy.” Stiles shrugged while his dad added, “When were you gonna tell me about this?”

Stiles frowned in pretend-consideration, skimming the extra peanut butter from the knife to the rim of the jar. “Oh, you know, probably sometime around half-past never?”

He could feel his dad’s eyes boring into the back of his head, and he huffed, tossing the butter knife into the sink. “It’s not a big deal—”

“Yes, it is! This kind of thing stays on your permanent record, colleges _look_ at this kind of thing—”

Stiles couldn’t help but scoff at that as he carefully lined up the two sides of the sandwich. “What colleges?” Dead silence followed, and he cringed.

He turned to look at his dad, who was giving him a look that was mostly exasperated, but also very close to disappointed. Stiles felt like he should be used to that look, but it still made his gut twist.

“Have you even _looked_ at any of those college brochures I left for you?”

Stiles’ shoes suddenly became very interesting. “ _Technically_ , yes.” He’d looked at them long enough to transfer them to his room.

“And how about untechnically?”

“That’s not even a word—”

“Stiles!” he barked, and that was the sign where Stiles should probably stop fucking around.

“ _Oh my god_ , okay, no! I haven’t!” He took an indignant bite of his sandwich, leaning back against the counter. “But—I was going to.”

“Don’t lie to me, Stiles,” his dad said, sounding…defeated.

The tone made Stiles’ stomach feel like it was made of lead, while the bite of his sandwich stuck to his mouth, the bread suddenly too dry and peanut butter too thick. He managed to swallow, but still couldn’t look his dad in the eye as he muttered, “I don’t know what you expected.”

“So you haven’t been planning on going to college.” It wasn’t a question, so Stiles didn’t answer; he could do nothing but shrug and nibble at the crust of his sandwich, still staring at his shoes.

He didn’t say anything else for a moment; when the silence grew too long, Stiles glanced up. The look on his dad’s face was some mixture of disbelief and determination as he took two steps into the kitchen—and up to the liquor cabinet. Stiles watched silently as his dad took out a glass and his favorite whiskey, pouring out three fingers’ worth.

Stiles swallowed back the guilt and the comments he wanted to make, just watching as his father threw back the liquor.

“You’re grounded for the next three weeks,” his father said as he set the glass back down and began to pour out another generous portion.

Stiles let out an indignant noise. “Why, because I don’t want to go to college?”

“No, because you’ve had detention every day for the last three weeks!” he barked, the force of his glare and the sound of the bottle hitting the bar of the cabinet making Stiles wince. Then he blinked, as if realizing what he’d done, and his face softened again from anger to disappointment. Stiles swallowed, watching silently as his father sighed and recapped the whiskey before setting it back inside the cabinet. When he spoke again, his voice was like quiet steel. “Other than school, work, and your community service with Mr. Hale, you won’t be leaving the house, understood?”

Stiles opened his mouth to protest, but then his father repeated, _“Understood?”_

Clearing his throat, Stiles nodded. “Yes, sir.” He took his sandwich and glass of milk with him as he headed for the stairs, even though he really wasn’t all that hungry anymore.

He’d gotten his foot on the bottom stair when his father’s voice made him pause. “Don’t think we’re done talking about college, either.”

Stiles didn’t say anything, just trudged up the stairs.

*

Once he got to his room, he set his glass down on his nightstand and tossed his sandwich in the trash before digging out his cigarettes and his phone, setting them on his windowsill. Then he dragged his computer chair over, grabbing a mostly empty cup of water from his desk, and opened the window.

He quickly lit a cigarette, frowning at the near-emptiness of his pack before setting it back on the windowsill. He exhaled vaguely, the cigarette in the wrong hand for the smoke to go out the window, but at this point he didn’t even care if his father smelled it. He was already disappointed enough, why not add another thing to the list.

He scowled at his phone as he picked it up and thumbed through to his text messages.

_To: Erica  
So i don’t think i’ll be making it to derby tomorrow_

The response was almost immediate.

_To: Stiles  
And why the hell not?!_

_To: Erica  
Grounded. Dad got a call from mr. Hale today and found out about detention._

He inhaled deeply form the cigarette, wondering if he tried hard enough, he could feel the cancer settling into his lungs.

_To: Stiles  
:(((( i’ll miss you boo_

Rolling his eyes but still managing to smile a little, he typed back a similar sentiment as he exhaled. He was kind of pissed, honestly; this was the girls’ first match-up of the season, and he’d been looking forward to seeing them kick ass.

His phone buzzed again, and he tapped his ash into the cup of water as he opened the text.

_To: Stiles  
Found Jackson at his house._

Stiles blinked in confusion for a second, before realizing it was from Scott. Then he rolled his eyes, because of course Jackson was at his house. That was usually his style; fuck off doing god-knows-what, then stumble his way back home like his bed had some kind of asshole-homing beacon.

_To: Scott  
Give him a kick in the nuts for me will you_

_To: Stiles  
He might throw up on me_

_To: Scott  
Then make sure he’s got a bucket in front of him first_

There was no response from anyone for a few minutes, in which Stiles took a couple more drags and wondered if Scott actually did what he asked for once. He was in the middle of texting Erica about them possibly coming over after derby—after all, his dad said he wasn’t able to leave the house, but nothing about having people over. Sure, it was probably implied, but Stiles liked to go literal—when Scott texted him again.

_To: Stiles  
He says he doesn’t know how or when he got home last night, and he kinda remembers fighting with Lydia but not leaving her._

_To: Scott  
Yeah, definitely kick him in the nuts_

Stiles scoffed in disgust and tossed his phone over to his bed. He had no idea what Lydia saw in Jackson. Ever. Sometimes when he said that out loud to Lydia, depending on her level of sobriety and whether Jackson was around, she’d either smirk and say “You’ve obviously never been eaten out by him,” which, hello, physical impossibility, or she’d give him one of her rare shy smiles, a look on her face to rival Scott’s Allison-face, and say, “You’ve obviously never been in love.”

Stiles would scoff at that, too, and then she’d lean into him, all soft skin and glazed eyes and liquor on her breath, and say, “You’ll see someday, Stiles. I promise, you’ll see. You’ll see what it’s all about, this love thing, and you’ll never scoff like that at me again.”

Which was bullshit, but, whatever.


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry i suck here have some dogs and sweaty boys and then stiles masturbating

It took longer than it should have to get to Mr. Hale’s house on that first day. This was mostly because Stiles had sat in the parking lot outside of work for about fifteen minutes after his shift ended at seven, having gone back to the same debate he’d had with himself all weekend.

A small yet extremely vocal part of him wanted to say fuck it and blow it off; just go to Scott’s house or something and tell his dad that he’d totally gone, of course. A related part of him couldn’t believe he’d been manipulated into this and wanted to tell Mr. Hale to go fuck himself and take whatever “community service” he had planned and shove it up his ass.

But then he would remember his dad’s disappointed face, his dad’s “completely lost because I don’t know my son anymore” face (which he’d worn as he and Mr. Hale had hashed out the details of the arrangement for Stiles’ indentured servitude on the phone Sunday afternoon), and Stiles’ anger would go soft, become diluted with guilt, and then logic would creep in.

Even if he tried to make excuses to Mr. Hale—that he’d forgotten, or got the time wrong, or got lost trying to find Mr. Hale’s house even though it was literally the only one for miles in that particular stretch of forest on the outskirts of Beacon Hills—he knew there was no way it wouldn’t all come back to bite him in the ass. One of them would undoubtedly call the other (if his dad didn’t figure out on his own that Stiles hadn’t been to Mr. Hale’s,) and then Stiles would be grounded even more.

Considering how excruciatingly boring the weekend had been, and how boring the weekends to come were inevitably going to be, Stiles really didn’t want that. (Boredom was not exactly the best of things for Stiles; it was usually how things like illegal, at-home tattoos happened.) And, knowing his dad, he’d probably take Stiles’ phone away, or worse, his internet, as extra punishment, and he’d be even worse off.

So Stiles gritted his teeth and headed over.

He’d had vague plans for his entrance: barrel down the driveway, music blasting and cigarette dangling. But he’d misjudged the distance, so his cigarette was finished before he’d even gotten to Mr. Hale’s street, and even though he could see the house from the street, the driveway did some weird, twisting thing that made speeding down it without sending his Jeep careening into the trees that lined it and the yard impossible.

He kept the music blaring, though. He’d keep at least one shred of his dignity.

But when he pulled up in front of the garage, no one even seemed to be there, the garage shut tight and no cars parked outside it. He threw on the parking brake and turned the Jeep off, the abrupt silence ringing in his ears as he looked around for some sign of life.

The house was big, especially for someone with a teacher’s salary. Coupled with all the land around, it must have been expensive, and Stiles couldn’t help but wonder how a guy like Mr. Hale—probably not too long out of college—managed to afford it. There were two stories and a long porch all along the front, and as Stiles walked up the steps to the front door, he realized it wrapped around the far corner of the house as well.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, figuring Mr. Hale was a trust fund baby—it made sense, and would explain his piss-poor attitude, if Jackson was any kind of example of what too much money could do to a person.

He stood in front of the door—painted a dull, non-descript grey—and didn’t know whether to knock or head straight in. There was only a moment of conflict, though, before he decided he’d give Mr. Hale the courtesy of a knock, but wouldn’t wait for him to open the door. It seemed reasonable enough; with most of his friends and acquaintances, he didn’t let even locked doors stop him from waltzing in.

There was a brief moment of silence after Stiles knocked on the door three times, and then suddenly there was an explosion of sound behind the door—a loud, ferocious barking, the skittering of nails on hardwood floor, the thundering of large bodies scrabbling towards him, and Stiles took an instinctive step back, even though he’d been seconds from turning the knob. The barking got louder, as the dogs seemed to find their way to the front door and then stand behind it, barking their heads off.

When there didn’t seem to be any human response, Stiles panicked for a second, because this was all starting to feel very horror-movie like.  He could see it now: Mr. Hale didn’t actually live out here; he just lured unsuspecting, problematic students out here to sic dogs on them and kill them for causing him headaches, and Stiles was going to be the first victim of Beacon Hills.

Hopefully Scott would do his best-friend-duties well and clear Stiles’ computer and bedroom of any incriminating evidence.

But then Stiles heard footsteps, and then Mr. Hale’s voice murmuring something behind the door. The barking quieted a bit, turning into more of a growling with intermittent barks that sounded like it was moving away from the door. Mr. Hale said something in a stern voice, and it stopped completely.

More footsteps, and then suddenly the door was swinging open, revealing a severely dressed-down Mr. Hale, even more so than when Stiles had seen him at the movie store. Stiles’ gaze first caught on the size-too-small t-shirt he was wearing; it looked old and worn thin, with a hole in the collar and various colors of paint splattered over the Beacon Hills High School Athletics logo on the front. Earbuds trailed out of the collar, the cords leading under the shirt (that was tight enough Stiles could trace the outline of the cord) to an iPod tucked into the waistband of a pair of old, equally-splattered basketball shorts.

And sneakers. For some reason they made him look five years younger, and Stiles blinked at them for a moment until Derek—because wow, he did not look like any kind of Mr. like that—said, “You’re late.”

He snapped his eyes back up to Derek’s face to see that the older man was giving him a raised eyebrow.

Stiles jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward his Jeep, lie already on his lips. “Well, you see—”

He was cut off by a loud clatter coming from behind Derek; he turned away from Stiles to look, and Stiles caught a glimpse over his shoulder of something fucking _huge_ barreling towards him, barking loudly.

“Oh my god!” he totally _didn’t_ yelp, instinctively taking a step backward the same time Derek barked, “Echo, no!” but it was no use—the next thing he knew, he was flat on his back and winded by the _giant fucking dog_ on top of him.

He wheezed, grimacing when he realized the wetness on his face was dog slobber, dripping from the panting mouth of the dog who still had its paws on his chest. The dog’s jaw was massive, had to be some sort of dog with a bull in the name, and Stiles had a brief moment of panic when that jaw came even closer to his face, Jesus Christ, but all that happened was a tongue to the face. Stiles squawked and grimaced, turning his head away, but the dog only seemed to take that as encouragement to lick his ear, _gross._

“Echo!” Derek said sternly, leaning in and tugging on the dog’s collar, pulling him off of Stiles. The dog whined, but did as Derek guided, and Stiles grunted when one of the dog’s back paws clipped his junk.

He didn’t bother to get up from the floor for a minute, just breathing and watching Derek lead Echo by the collar back toward the kitchen, where—

“Holy shit, is that a wolf?” Stiles blurted, perking up slightly from the floor. It certainly _looked_ like a wolf sitting there, all long legs, grey fur with brown markings, bushy tail and narrow face.

“No,” Derek said, dragging Echo back over the threshold and resetting the baby gate that the dog had apparently knocked over in his exuberance to slobber all over Stiles; the wolf-dog stood as Derek came near, but was obviously much better trained than the giant one. “Not full wolf.”

“Does that imply _part_ wolf?” Stiles asked before slowly getting to his feet and wiping at his face.

Derek chuckled, and Stiles despaired at how sexy it sounded, because Stiles had been _terrified_ , okay, he shouldn’t be allowed to get turned on for at least fifteen minutes after that. “Yeah. The rescue center was pretty sure her grandfather was probably full wolf.”

“Rescue?” he asked, taking a few steps closer, still a little wary; Stiles was really only used to Lydia’s dog Prada, who was some little Chihuahua thing that Stiles could hold with one hand. He was pretty sure Echo could eat Prada with one bite.

Derek nodded, smiling down at the wolf-dog when she poked her head over the top of the gate, rubbing behind her ears. “They’re both rescues, actually. That’s Echo,” he said, jerking his head toward the other dog, who wagged his tail and came closer to the gate, “and this little lady is Tris,” he added, bringing his other hand down to scratch behind both her ears at the same time.

“Uh, cool,” Stiles said, when Derek didn’t say anything for a moment, seemingly to wait for a response. Stiles had always generally liked dogs, but never had the chance to be around them much growing up; his mom had been allergic to basically anything with fur, so his “learn responsibility” pet had been a snake.

“You can come closer,” Derek said with a judgmental eyebrow. “They won’t bite.”

“Unless you tell them to, right?” he said, taking a few steps closer, still a little wary because every prey instinct in him was screaming _that’s a fucking wolf, you idiot, what the hell are you doing_. But then, coming closer also put him in close proximity with Derek’s biceps, which were straining at the hem of his sleeves in an unfairly attractive way. “Although you really wouldn’t even need them, you could probably pop my head off like a fucking Barbie doll if you wanted,” he blurted before he could help himself, eyes lingering on the bulging muscle.

Derek’s mouth twitched like he didn’t want to find that funny, not responding any other way. As he continued rubbing behind Tris’s ears, her eyes closed and her mouth fell open, tongue lolling out a little, and yeah, okay, it was hard to see her as any kind of threatening like that.

There was a deep bark from beside them, and Stiles jumped a little at the sound. It was only Echo, who had come back closer to the gate; he put his head over the top, wagging his tail expectantly.

“He gets jealous if you don’t give him equal attention,” Derek explained, not lifting his hands from Tris. He gave Stiles some serious eyebrows, looking between him and Echo, obviously implying that Stiles needed to pet the huge fucking dog that had bowled him over not two minutes ago.

Stiles gave him a skeptical eyebrow right back, but Derek was already looking away from him, smiling down affectionately at Tris, eyes soft. And it was—off-putting, to say the least. It wasn’t that Stiles had never seen Derek smile; even if Derek was a chronic smirker, there were occasions in class where he would smile at someone for getting an answer right or asking a good question. But now Stiles almost felt like he was intruding on a softer side of Derek he possibly wasn’t even supposed to be seeing.

Clearing his throat, Stiles looked down at Echo, who was panting happily and looking at Stiles expectantly. Squashing that last little bit of prey instinct still screaming at him, he stuck his hand out for Echo to sniff. The dog snuffled at his fingers for a bit before licking at them, and Stiles couldn’t help but smile as Echo nudged Stiles’ hand with the top of his head. Stiles started scratching behind his ears, and yeah, okay. He was cute.

After a few moments, though, Derek gave Tris’s head one last rub and then stood straight again. “So, are you ready to get to work?”

Stiles followed suit, a bit wary. “Not really, but it’s not like I really have a choice in the matter.”

Derek’s mouth thinned, but instead of replying, he just turned and headed for the stairs; after giving Echo one last pat on the head, Stiles followed.

“So uh, what exactly does this ‘community service’ of yours entail?” Stiles asked, unashamedly watching Derek’s ass move beneath his shorts as Derek walked up the stairs ahead of him. “Because if you just wanted to get me alone, you really shouldn’t have told my dad.”

Derek stopped short, Stiles nearly face-planting into his ass, and turned to glare over his shoulder. Stiles gave him an innocent look, to which Derek just narrowed his eyes. “I moved in about two months ago,” he said, apropos of nothing, continuing to climb the stairs. Stiles followed after a few moments, giving ample room to look at Derek’s ass again.

Derek turned left once he reached the top, and Stiles followed at a more sedate pace, unable to resist peeking in through the doors that were open on the way. The door on the left opened to a large room, a huge bed taking up most of the view, and a few pieces of furniture visible under some boxes. The doors on the right led to smaller rooms, similarly spartan in the way they’d been filled; a piece of furniture here, a box or five there. All of them looked half-finished, just bare drywall, scraps of wallpaper still clinging to some of them, and were definitely missing any kind of personal touches.

“It looks like you moved in two weeks ago,” Stiles blurted as he rounded the corner, stopping short of the open door Derek had disappeared through. This room was a bit smaller and much emptier than the rest of the others, with plastic covering the carpet. There were two short ladders set up, one in the middle of the room, the other close to the unfinished wall; a can of paint was balanced on the top step, the paintbrush laid next to it drenched in the same bluish-grey color that edged most of the rest of the room.

“It’s taken me a while to get settled,” Derek said shortly, already kneeling by a gallon of paint, an empty tray next to him. “How are you with a brush?” he asked idly, starting to pour the paint into the tray.

And Stiles—well, Stiles couldn’t really believe it. “Are you serious? This is it? You’re just gonna have me paint your house?”

Derek paused mid-pour, glancing up at Stiles. “Is there something else you had in mind?”

“I dunno, maybe actual community service? Helping little old ladies with their groceries, serving soup to the poor?”

Derek snorted, returning to pouring. “If you want to do that, go right ahead. But the way I figure, I’ll be doing the same good to the community by keeping you away from it as putting you in it, and, this way,” he finished pouring, setting the can aside, and looked up at Stiles with a smirk that was totally not sexy, because it was _infuriating_ , “I get my walls painted.”

“And what, I’m just supposed to—” He flailed his arms a bit. “Just go with it?”

“I could always call your father again,” Derek replied simply, sliding one of those fuzzy things onto the end of a roller. “Let him know you’re not cooperating.”

Stiles scowled, then stalked forward, grabbing the roller out of Derek’s hand. “Whatever.”

Derek smirked again and rose gracefully to his feet, tray in hand. “You can start on that wall,” he said, indicating the wall without a window, edged with paint along the ceiling and the trim on the bottom, and handing the tray to Stiles. Then he turned back to the unfinished wall, plastic crinkling under his feet as he walked over to the ladder.

“Try not to make a mess,” he tossed over his shoulder, plugging himself back into his headphones.

“ _You_ try not to make a mess,” Stiles retorted. Grimacing at his own weak comeback, he turned and smacked the roller into the tray, sending paint splattering onto the plastic and his shirt.

He resolutely ignored the snicker he heard coming from Derek’s direction.

*

Two and a half hours, four near-spills, two corrections on technique, and countless splatters later, the room was finished.

Stiles groaned as he sprawled himself across the middle of the floor; the plastic crinkled uncomfortably beneath him but he didn’t even care, feeling too hot to move. The room they’d been painting faced West, and as the sun had set, it had beat down on them and sent the room from ‘mildly uncomfortable’ to ‘fucking awful’ as they had finished the job. Stiles had sweat in places he didn’t even know could sweat. (Although it probably hadn’t helped that he’d been wearing tight jeans today.)

The only plus side to feeling drenched in his own sweat was that Derek had also ended up sweating, moisture beading along his hairline and darkening the faded grey cotton under his armpits. As Stiles had watched him reach for the parts of the walls near the ceiling, he had managed to catch glimpses of Derek’s waist and hips, glistening with sweat, and had had to discreetly readjust himself in his pants a couple of times at the thoughts that had run through his mind. (He hadn’t thought he’d had a thing for sweat before this, but what the hell. You learn something new every day.)

Now, though, Stiles just groaned again and pulled the bottom of his shirt up to wipe his face. “Fuck, it’s hot in here.” He used his shirt to fan at his stomach, asking, “Don’t you have A/C or something?”

He looked over to where Derek was pouring the leftover paint back into the can, only to find Derek’s eyes drawn to where Stiles still had his shirt pulled up, his eyes a little glazed, mouth slightly open. Too late, Derek seemed to realize what he was doing, and his eyes briefly flicked up to Stiles’ before he looked back down at the paint.

Stiles couldn’t help but grin smugly as Derek cleared his throat. “I turned it off upstairs because I knew I’d have to open the windows,” he said to the can, setting aside the tray he’d been emptying and lining up the lid on top of the can.

But Stiles wasn’t going to let him off so easy. He knew that look, had seen it often enough on other guys’ faces through smoke and flashing lights, just before they pressed their bodies close. “Did you see something you like, Derek?” he asked, stretching his arms above his head and letting his back arch and his hips tilt in Derek’s direction as he did so.

Derek didn’t even pause as he shook his head, reaching for the hammer nearby. “You really shouldn’t call me that. I’m your teacher.”

“Aw, c’mon, _Teach_ ,” Stiles mocked. “If you wanted the whole schoolboy fantasy, you really shouldn’t have invited me to your house.”

Even though the tips of his ears were turning red, Derek pretended not to hear him, tapping sharply at the lid of the paint can. Then he stood, leaving the can on the floor, looming over Stiles. He looked mildly threatening, hammer loosely clasped in his hand, stern look on his face, but Stiles couldn’t say he felt any kind of fear, just a weird flare of want at the image. Although it really didn’t matter either way, since Derek just walked around Stiles, gruffly announcing, “I’ll be right back.”

“Hey, wait—” Stiles scrabbled to his feet, following Derek out of the room. There was no sign of him in the hallway, but one of the previously open doors was now only slightly ajar, and he headed for it. “C’mon, you can’t take a little teasing?” he called through it, leaning against the doorjamb.

The movement made the door swing open a bit further, and his shoulder brushing against it only made the door open faster; he had a brief instinct to catch it, and reached out for the handle, but then he looked up and couldn’t help but stop short.

Because there was Derek, shirtless. Or, nearly so, considering his head was caught in the fabric of the shirt he’d been removing.

Stiles’ gaze first caught on the dimples in the small of Derek’s back, just above where his shorts had ridden low to reveal a sliver of slightly-less-tan skin and the band of his underwear. He watched unabashedly, feeling his mouth fall open slightly but not even caring, because the play of muscles in Derek’s back was fascinating. He drank in the sight, his attention drawn up to the points of his shoulderblades as Derek stretched and flexed, but then he saw the dark ink spread across the skin between.

“I didn’t know you had a tattoo,” Stiles blurted, and Derek jumped, managing to finally untangle himself as he whipped his head to look at Stiles. He abruptly realized he was standing there with his arm still extended, and quickly dropped it.

“Jesus—I thought the door was shut,” Derek said, quickly turning back to the dresser he was standing in front of, pulling out one of the drawers to rummage for a new shirt, presumably.

“It was,” Stiles said absently, eyes still on the tattoo. “Mostly.” He couldn’t figure out what the tattoo was, which was frustrating; he knew there were some tattoos that weren’t supposed to look like anything, but this one was a definite symbol, one that Stiles just didn’t recognize, three spirals meeting in the center of his back, done in thick black ink. “What’s your tattoo?” he asked before he could help himself.

“It’s not something I broadcast to my students,” Derek said dryly, and Stiles blinked when suddenly the tattoo was covered in olive green fabric. Derek turned around, eyebrows telegraphing a warning.

“Do you have any others?” Stiles pressed, his curiosity managing to override anything else at the moment.

“Do you?” Derek asked, eyes flicking to the crude dinosaur peeking out from the underside of Stiles’ right arm, something Scott had drawn and inked while they were out at the Preserve once. (Which, looking back, had probably not been the wisest of decisions. Stiles was lucky it hadn’t gotten infected and made his arm rot off.) It was one of the few he had that was actually somewhat visible, and even then only when he didn’t have sleeves.

“I’ve got twelve,” Stiles said. “Wanna see ‘em?” He started dragging the hem of his shirt up, wiggling his eyebrows, but Derek just rolled his eyes.

“Maybe you should try getting some legal ones first,” he suggested, crossing the room and stopping just shy of Stiles’ personal space. Stiles probably should have moved, especially since he was blocking the doorway, but he hadn’t been this close to Derek since the first day of school, not while both of them were on equal ground; if Stiles wanted, he could reach out and touch Derek’s shoulder, or grab his hand. For the first time, Stiles realized that they were actually almost the same height. If he took a step forward, Stiles wouldn’t have to tilt his head back very far at all to reach Derek’s mouth—

Then Derek cleared his throat, taking half a step back. “Could you go shut that door for me?” he asked, gesturing down the hall to the room they had been painting. “I want to let the dogs out and they like to climb stairs, Tris especially.”

Stiles blinked, then nodded, taking his own step back. “Yeah, sure.” He headed down to the room while Derek headed for the stairs. After a quick reach, he got the door shut and then followed Derek down to where it was blissfully cool.

He could already hear the dogs making noise, nails clicking across the tiles in the kitchen and Echo snuffling and barking. When he turned the corner, he found Derek standing in front of the baby gate, one hand behind each dog’s ear. Derek looked over when Echo perked at the sound of Stiles’ footsteps, Derek eyebrows quirking in silent question.

“We’re good,” Stiles said, stopping a few paces away and stuffing his hands in his pockets.

Derek nodded. “Alright.” He stood straight, the dogs rising to stand with him, and he held his hand out, palm up in a ‘stop’ signal. “Stay,” he commanded, voice authoritative and clear, and wow, that really shouldn’t have done the things it did to Stiles.

The dogs listened, standing perfectly still as Derek undid the latch and moved the gate to the side. Derek narrowed his eyes at them, then grinned; this seemed to be their cue, as both of them started moving, Echo rearing up on hind legs to put his front paws on Derek’s shoulders, Tris winding around his legs and rubbing against him. Derek laughed, something Stiles could honestly say he’d never seen him do before.

Stiles suddenly felt extremely out of place, intruding on a domestic scene he would never be a part of. (Not that he ever wanted to, of course not. Why would he? Derek was an asshole, most of the time, and no matter how attractive he was, even if Stiles _did_ manage to hook up with him, he would never want to actually _be_ with him. Of course not.)

Stiles cleared his throat awkwardly, taking his hand out of his pocket to jerk his thumb over his shoulder as he took a few steps backward. “So uh, I’m gonna go? If you don’t have anything else for me.”

“What?” Derek looked up from rubbing behind Echo’s ears, pushing the large dog back down to the floor as he continued, “Oh, yeah. You’re free to go. Same time tomorrow?”

“I’ve got work from six to ten tomorrow.”

Derek nodded. “After school, then.”

“Hey, just like old times,” Stiles said with a crooked grin.

Rolling his eyes, Derek responded, “Yeah, the great old times of three days ago.”

“I’ll cherish them fondly for all eternity,” Stiles said solemnly. Derek gave him a pissy look, and Stiles couldn’t help but cackle as he let himself out.

*

“How did it go?” his dad asked as soon as Stiles walked into the house; he was sitting in the living room, feet propped up on the coffee table, wearing his reading glasses and holding the paper.

“Fine,” Stiles replied shortly as he toed off his shoes and slung his backpack to the floor; he needed a drink and a shower, not any kind of heart-to-heart with his dad.

“What did he have you do?” he asked, not looking up from the paper; Stiles could hear it ruffling as he headed into the kitchen.

“Paint a room,” he called as he opened the fridge. His hand hesitated for a second between the beer and the water, and he figured his dad wouldn’t be happy if he grabbed one of the beers.

As Stiles cracked open a water bottle, the sheriff made an agreeable noise. “Maybe some physical labor will do you some good.”

Stiles snorted, because there was really only one kind of physical labor that would do Stiles any good, and it seemed as if Derek had taken it so far off the table that it wasn’t even in the same room anymore. He didn’t respond, though, too busy draining the water bottle. Jesus, he was thirstier than he thought.

The bottle crinkled from the combined pressure of his hand and sucking the water down (he was mildly impressed with himself with how quickly he was downing it, to be honest) and he brought it away with a gasp, tossing the empty bottle into the trash.

“Do you have community service tomorrow, too?” his dad asked as Stiles headed for the stairs.

“Right after school, and then I have work until ten,” he called, climbing the stairs heavily, hoping his father would take the hint that he didn’t really want to talk anymore.

“Maybe next time you could let me know when you’re on your way home!” his dad called back, and Stiles felt a sharp swoop of guilt about that, but shrugged it off as he continued up the stairs.

“Yeah, okay!” he called back, nearing the top and almost out of yelling distance. If his dad would just _take the hint…_

“You’re supposed to be grounded, you know—”

_“Okay!”_ he yelled exasperatedly, pausing at the top of the stairs. “I’ve got homework, Dad!” He waited a beat, two, hoping he wouldn’t notice that Stiles had left his backpack downstairs, and got his answer when his dad called back up.

“Don’t be up too late!”

Stiles pumped his fist, low, near his waist, and continued to his room, yelling back a vague, “Yeah, okay!”

He sighed as he entered his room, kicking the door shut behind him and immediately stripping off his paint-splattered shirt, tossing it in the vague direction of his closet. He stood shirtless in front of the mirror over his dresser as he emptied his pockets on top of it: wallet, keys, cigarettes and lighter, random change from the snack he’d bought after school, and lastly, his phone, which he thumbed on and pulled up his texts as he undid his pants with one hand.

He had a few missed ones from Erica, commentary on the people at her work and then a rant about her little brother being a little shit that didn’t really need replies yet, and one from Scott, asking if he wanted to hook up to Halo. That one had been received nearly three hours ago, and Stiles felt his mouth twist into a frown; it never felt awesome to miss out on bro time, and by now Scott had probably found something (or someone, depending on Allison’s availability) else to do.

_To: Scott  
Yo man, just got out of community service_

He was up for Halo with Scott; he could always use a bit of a distraction, and he’d only managed to see Scott for ten minutes after school before both of them had had to leave for work. And sure, they’d done nothing but play together online all day yesterday, but he just really liked playing Halo with Scott, okay? They were a fucking kickass team. (And no, they were not codependent, _Lydia_.)

At the same time though, he mostly wanted to shower and pass out, maybe even jerk off somewhere in there.

He pushed down his jeans and set his phone on the dresser, kicking them off and to the side as he opened his underwear drawer; if Scott hadn’t texted him back by the time he got out of the shower, he would just pass out.

He had only just decided on his Iron Man boxers when his phone buzzed, rattling loudly across the top of the dresser and sending him jumping a little. When he realized what he’d done, he rolled his eyes at himself and pulled up Scott’s reply.

_To: Stiles  
Really?? that sucks. Hanging out w/ isaac now but we could still chill if you want_

Stiles nodded to himself; he didn’t expect any less. If Stiles hadn’t heard from someone for three hours he would have found something else to do, too.

_To: Scott  
Nah, it’s cool. Think I’m just gonna pass out. See you tomorrow_

Leaving his phone on his dresser, he grabbed the underwear and a pair of basketball shorts from the floor and headed for the bathroom.

*

He showered perfunctorily, only taking long enough for the water in the drain to run clean and to scrub his hair; he had tugged at his dick half-heartedly, half a dozen times or so, before realizing how lame it was to get so turned on by a guy sweaty and spattered with paint. Even so, he was still half-hard by the time he was drying himself off with his towel.  (What? He was all slippery and thinking of Derek, and the sweat had quickly turned to a soapy, slick Derek, all glistening and quiet and smirking and—what else was gonna happen?)

As he walked back into his room, he idly adjusted himself through his shorts, probably palming himself a little more firmly than he needed to if he wanted to calm down. His eyes locked first yet briefly on his laptop before swinging over and lingering on his bed.

And so then it was his bed that he found himself in, sprawled face-down, one hand thrown above his head, the other on the mattress near his hip, and legs spread just enough to brush his dick against the mattress when he adjusted his hips a bit.

It felt good. Like, really good. So he did it again. And again. And again.

Before he really registered what he was doing, he found himself in a rhythm, his dick quickly thickening up in his shorts. He wasn’t sure why, but the heavy friction of his cock sliding against the mattress with three different layers of fabric between them was fucking perfect, catching on the head of his dick just right, the thicker basketball shorts providing a cushion to keep himself from going off too quickly.

There were no particular fantasies, to begin with. Sure, there were glimpses, flashes of hard bodies and soft curves, long hair and strong jaws, just because he couldn’t _not_ think of things that turned him on, but it felt good enough to just rut against his bed, just to revel in the way his nerves responded. He had a brief, longing moment when he realized how much better it would feel if he were stoned, but not only was his dad around, at this point he didn’t want to stop.

Still, he was actually kind of proud of himself for not thinking about Mr. Hale yet, now that he’d committed to this whole masturbating thing.

But then, of course, thinking about not thinking of him only made Stiles think of him. And then it was kind of like opening a floodgate, flashes of things Stiles wanted to do to, _with_ , Derek, most of the images too brief to really cling to. But then the memory of Derek’s naked back came up, and then his mind gave him the image of a mostly naked Derek lying on the bed next to him, completely sated and undone, not putting any effort into getting Stiles off, just smiling lazily at him.

“Fuck,” Stiles breathed, turning his head further into his pillow, eyes squeezing shut to better imagine Derek’s eyes on him.  He supposed he could imagine Derek underneath him, but the idea of Derek just watching, eyes heavy-lidded, a smirk playing across his face, was doing it for him in a way he hadn’t expected.

He clenched the hand above his head around the edge of his mattress, allowing more leverage to grind deeper into the mattress. It was good, but not quite enough; he moved his other hand from the bed to his own hipbone, fingers shoving beneath his waistband and palm hot under his shirt, not sure if he wanted to shove them off or not.

But then suddenly in his mind the hand wasn’t his, but Mr. Hale’s, holding him in place as he settled over Stiles, grinding into his ass and pressing him down, ready for another round. Stiles imagined that his weight would be heavy and fucking amazing, his cock thick and hot as it teased between Stiles’ cheeks.

“Jesus Christ,” he hissed into his pillow, shoving his hand completely into the back of his shorts to grip his own ass. He wasn’t sure when he started, but he was panting now, heavy humid breaths that puffed back into his flushed face from the pillow. Instead of turning to give himself more air, he stuffed his face deeper into the pillow, sure he was already making too much noise anyway by rocking the bed. He probably should have put some music on or something, but he hadn’t thought this would escalate so quickly.

He could feel his orgasm coiling in his spine, rushing in like a wave, hot and quick, and he picked up the rhythm of his hips as he pushed his hand deeper into his shorts. It was too dry to do much more than press against his hole with the pads of two fingers, but it was perfect anyway, just enough that he could feel his balls start to tighten up.

Then he imagined Derek’s fingers instead of his own: they would be a bit rough, a bit careless, eager to get Stiles off so they could go to sleep together, because Derek had work and Stiles had school and Derek was grumpy if he didn’t get seven hours of sleep, even if he had a good orgasm beforehand. (And Stiles had been the one to start this anyway, coming in and humping the bed like that.)

And for some reason, some stupid fucking reason, _that_ was what got Stiles. The stupid domesticity of that, of Derek waiting for Stiles to come to bed, of Derek slinging his arm around Stiles’ waist and twining their legs together, of his fucking grumpy, half-asleep face as he blundered around in the morning when the dogs started whining to go out; pressing the snooze button when the alarm went off in order to stay in bed, just nine more minutes, with Stiles.

It was the sudden onslaught of these ideas and images all flicking past, like photo-slides pressed too quickly to get more than a glimpse, that sent all the blood rushing like hot mercury through his veins, his grip tightening on his sheets as he bit a near-yell into his pillow, half-strangled as he caught himself doing it, while his hips churned into the bed, finger slipping in and catching, just the tip, stretching his rim slightly when he couldn’t get his hand to sync up with his hips, and then—

A small, high note caught in his throat as the wave of his orgasm tipped over, crashing through him and leaving him breathless. It felt like every muscle in his body was clenched—hand, eyes, jaw, neck, stomach, balls, legs, toes—as he came, dick throbbing and pulsing hot and sticky into the front of his shorts, asshole tightening rhythmically around the tip of his finger.

Then, like a stringless puppet, Stiles collapsed, panting heavily. He turned his head to the side so he could breathe, but kept his eyes clenched shut, flicking out his tongue to wet his lips. He slowly pulled his hand away from his ass, hissing slightly at the aftershock of pleasure sent zinging through him. He let his hand flop to the bed, and then panted out, “Holy fucking shit.”

Stiles didn’t think he’d ever come so hard from thinking about Derek before. He tried not to think too hard about the fact that domestic fantasies of Derek did it for him more than student/teacher fantasies, because it pointed toward a path Stiles didn’t want to go down.

Instead, he just laid there for a minute, long enough for his heart to settle and his come to go a bit tacky. With a sigh, he rolled onto his back, lifting his hips to push his shorts off, using his boxers to clean up the worst of the mess. He lamented the loss of the Iron Man boxers for the next day—they were one of his favorite pairs—but mostly just sighed as he pulled his shorts back on sans underwear.

Maybe it was just a fluke orgasm. They happened sometimes, where Stiles would just be minding his own business, just getting into it and letting his mind wander a bit, when his orgasm would come out of nowhere. He’d been thinking about taking the Jeep to the shop to get the tires checked once when he suddenly hit the point of no return, scrambling to think about something relatively sexier before he came.

When his mind reminded him that those orgasms were usually weak, hardly satisfactory at all, and he usually had to come again later to feel like he’d actually accomplished anything, and certainly didn’t leave him feeling sated and near-content and ready to pass out…

He ignored it.


	6. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyyyyyy so like. sorry i'm awful at updating this. real life and writer's block is a bitch. but hopefully you like it?? i like it.

By Friday, Stiles was ready to go out of his _mind_.

It settled in steadily and surely over the week, the more he went back and forth. Every day, his dad woke him up, sent him off to school. Depending on the day, he’d either go straight to work or straight to Mr. Hale’s afterward. When he was done with one, he’d go to the other. When he was done with that, he’d go home, where his dad would be waiting for him.

It was _boring_. Sure, he saw his friends at school, and texted them all the time, but it wasn’t the same. Everyone was out, doing things and having lives, while Stiles was completely stuck. He supposed that was the point of the punishment, but that didn’t stop him from absolutely _hating_ it.

It made his hands twitch a little more, certainly. More often than not, if he wasn’t holding a cigarette, he found himself with a pen in his hand, scribbling over everything. He switched back and forth from paper to skin, but scratching at it with markers only made the itching under his skin even _worse_.

Mr. Hale’s general existence wasn’t very much help, either. Either he was walking around in his reading glasses and ties, lecturing on Henry VIII, or he was in ratty t-shirts and running shoes, biting his lip as he reached for a tough spot to paint. (And somehow managed to pull off both looks entirely too well.)

After that first day, he’d switched out his headphones for speakers instead; Stiles had braced himself for something awful—probably country, just to ruin Stiles’ life—but instead his iPod had shuffled through a collection of alternative and classic rock that Stiles couldn’t help but appreciate. (Which maybe ruined Stiles’ life even _more_ than if it had been country—they weren’t supposed to be _musically compatible_.)

Derek was always pretty quiet while they were working, barely even grunting whenever Stiles would ask a question, but then he would turn around and offer to make Stiles a sandwich before he went to work, or hand Echo’s leash to Stiles when the dogs needed to go out. Then he would barely acknowledge Stiles’ goodbye, already distracted with the dogs or grading papers.

If he was going for a special student-teacher Lifetime moment, he seriously needed to watch more Lifetime movies.

“Hey.”

Stiles looked up, cigarette halfway to his mouth, to see Allison stepping out onto the loading dock. She smiled as she walked toward him, her camera bouncing a little where it was hanging around her neck.

“Hey,” Stiles said as she sat down on his right, letting her legs dangle over the edge next to Stiles’. “Don’t you have class?”

She gave him a _don’t even start with me_ look, then indicated the camera. “If anyone asks, I’m out finding sources for my final portfolio.”

“Uh-huh,” Stiles said, finally bringing his cigarette to his mouth. He looked out across the loading bay as he inhaled, and then he heard the click of a camera shutter.

Turning his head, he saw Allison looking at him, the camera held up to her face. He made a face, and the camera went off again. Then he parted his lips in a small ‘o’ and exhaled his smoke directly at the camera. She held steady, the shutter sounding several times as he finished exhaling and then laughed, turning back to face the loading bay.

“I hope you don’t plan on making me the subject of your portfolio,” he said with a self-deprecating grin, resolving not to look back at her until she got the camera out of her face. “I’m not that interesting.”

“Oh, I dunno,” Allison said as she pointed the camera toward Stiles’ lap, the camera clicking again. “I’ve heard some _things_ about you, Mr. Stilinski.” The camera went off again when Stiles moved his hand, making it look like his finger was his dick as he flipped the camera off.

She sighed, humming a little, and out of his peripheral, Stiles saw her bring the camera down, letting it hang at her neck. “So,” she said, reaching across him to pluck his cigarette from his fingers, “what’s been up with you lately.”

“What have you heard I’ve been up to?” he asked, watching intently as she inhaled slowly. The way her hand curled near her face, the pale outline of her shooting glove especially stark against her summer-tanned skin, even in the shade, made Stiles’ fingers itch.

She tipped her head from side to side, exhaling just as slowly as she’d inhaled. “Not much, really.” Stiles took the cigarette back as she said, “But it’s only been a week, I’m sure something will crop up.”

“Feels like it’s been ages,” Stiles drawled. “How have you all been surviving without me?” he said dramatically, putting a head over his heart. “Tell me Allison, how’s Scott? Has he cried yet?”

Allison rolled her eyes and bumped her shoulder into his. “You’d know better than me.”

Stiles considered the fact that he’d hardly been out of contact with Scott over the past week; he actually had a message from fifteen minutes ago from Scott saying _sorry man, it’s dodgeball today!! catch u latr!_

“Point.”

Suddenly she grabbed his left arm, the one he’d been drawing all over. He was covered in ink from his shoulder to his knuckles, except in the places he couldn’t reach very well. Some of the designs had started to fade, others almost completely gone, while a few were still bright black and fresh. She stretched his arm out, examining all of the designs.

“This looks pretty rad,” she said, tracing over the python head he’d drawn on his forearm; its neck and body curled up and around his bicep. Her fingers tripped lower, to the mandala-esque design on the back of his hand.

“Thanks,” Stiles said around the curl of smoke in his mouth. He exhaled. “I got bored.”

She snorted, her fingers stretching out over his for a second before she flipped his arm, tracing over the crown of laurel leaves he’d drawn around his wrist. “Obviously.”

He flicked ash from the end of his cigarette as she inspected the markings on the inside of his arm. “You’re running out of space,” she pointed out, letting his arm drop back onto his leg.

Stiles didn’t really have anything to add to that, so he just hummed a little around his cigarette. He exhaled, then offered the cigarette again. She took it, plucking it neatly from his fingers.

“So,” she began, bringing the cigarette up to her mouth, “what exactly has he been making you do?” She raised her eyebrows at Stiles as she closed the small distance between the cigarette and her mouth.

“Mr. Hale?” Stiles asked, even though they both knew exactly what she’d been referring to. She nodded, and he made an ‘eh’ face. “We’ve mostly just been painting rooms in his house.”

She raised her eyebrows again, cigarette just barely plucked from her lips. She blew the smoke out of the side of her mouth, then said, “Really? That’s it?” as she offered the cigarette back to Stiles.

“That’s what I said.” He took the cigarette back from her, taking a quick drag before adding, “Not that it doesn’t suck.”

He was taking another drag when Allison tilted her head to the side, frowning a little.

“What?” he prompted, flicking ash into the wind.

“It’s just…” She squinted one eye at him. “It’s kinda…weird, isn’t it?”

Stiles raised an eyebrow, cigarette in his mouth, and she shrugged, swinging her tight-clad legs where they were hanging over the edge of the loading dock, boots thudding against the wall.

“I mean, teachers don’t really invite students to their homes. It usually like—undermines their authority, you know?”

Stiles scoffed; Mr. Hale was just as imposing in his own home as he was in the classroom. Knowing he existed outside the classroom wouldn’t change that. “It’s not like I don’t know he’s a real person. I’ve seen him outside the classroom before; I even know his first name.”

“No, I don’t mean that way,” she said, waving him off when he offered the last hit of the cigarette to her. She paused for a moment, gathering her thoughts while Stiles took that last drag for himself. “Your home is just a really intimate place.” And there was the sudden image of Derek in comfortable clothes, paint on his hands, as he smiled down at his dogs and scratched behind their ears. Intimate, indeed. “It’s just kind of strange that a teacher—and this teacher, in particular—would be willing to bring a student there. Especially alone. Especially when that student is—”

“Me,” Stiles finished, exhaling smoke as he stubbed the cigarette out on the ground near his hip.

“You haven’t exactly been his best student,” Allison said dryly, before she leaned into Stiles, her thin shoulder pressing against his for a moment before she straightened again. “And he’s a new teacher, so this whole year is kind of like a first impression, and inviting troubled students into your home is a hell of an impression.”

Stiles snorted. “Yeah, I guess.” He hadn’t actually put much thought into the kinds of things people would be saying about the whole setup. Then again, once he’d learned the kinds of crazy things people liked to say about _him_ , he stopped caring what people said about anyone. “But the things people say is bullshit, you know that.”

“No, it’s not even about that,” she said quickly, sounding frustrated that she couldn’t properly say what she wanted. “The thing is, he probably knows all that, but he _still set it up anyway_. Even with the whole community service thing, he could have had you actually doing community service, but instead he brings you to his house?”

Stiles just blinked, not really understanding what she was getting at.

“I think—” She shrugged, tucking a long strand of her blue-dyed hair behind her ear. It had faded from the deep blue, slowly turning teal. “I think he might actually give a shit about you, in his own way. Enough that he’s willing to put up with all that shit.” She shrugged, stretching her legs out in front of her, examining a small run in the left knee of her tights, letting the point sink in. “Either that, or he’s a selfish asshole and is just using you for free labor.”

Stiles couldn’t help but let out a laugh at that, and she turned to look at him, all sweet dimples and sparkling mischief in her eyes. Then she looked down, to where Stiles had cut the sleeves off his shirt to the point where the holes went halfway down his ribs. She lightly traced the bare skin there with her fingers, and Stiles tried not to let it tickle him.

“Can I draw something on you?”

Stiles already had the marker in his hand. “I thought you’d never ask.”

*

“So what are we gonna do now that you’ve run out of rooms to paint?” Stiles asked Mr. Hale that afternoon, when they were finishing up the final room (besides Derek’s bedroom, which Stiles didn’t think he was ever going to be allowed in again). He hoped it wasn’t more painting—if he had to see another paint roller again he would probably choke himself with it.

Mr. Hale shrugged, tapping at a paint can with a hammer. “I’m sure I’ll figure out something.”

It was hot again that day; Stiles was grateful he’d gone home and changed into shorts and a different tank top before heading over. Even so, he was still covered in a light sheen of sweat, and as he stepped back to look at their work, he wiped at his forehead with the back of his forearm.

“Can our next task include air conditioning?” Stiles asked, grabbing the front of his tank and fanning himself with it. “I’m too delicate for all this sweat.”

Mr. Hale glanced up, eyebrows judging. Then he stopped, his mouth turning at the corners like he didn’t want to grin but couldn’t help it.

“What?” Stiles looked down at himself—he was mildly paint-splattered, yeah, but he didn’t look too ridiculous—while Mr. Hale rose to his feet, paint can and hammer in one hand.

With his free hand, Mr. Hale pointed at Stiles’ face, his mouth still twitching. “You’ve got—” He gestured to his own forehead, then Stiles’ drawn-on arm. “I think it rubbed off a little.”

Stiles looked down, and sure enough, the fresher marks on the back of his arm were smeared; he could only assume his forehead was similarly smeared. He grimaced and started rubbing at his forehead as he followed Mr. Hale out of the room, shutting the door behind them, but it was probably no use.

The dogs were pacing in the mud room by the time they got downstairs, Echo whuffling like he wanted to bark but knew he shouldn’t. Mr. Hale passed them by, heading for the basement stairs, the dogs pitifully following the best they could, eyes sad when Mr. Hale barely glanced at them.

“Come on, you silly mutts,” Stiles said, the dogs’ attentions immediately on him as he began removing the baby gate. Tris’s tail started wagging, her mouth dropping open into a pant, while Echo went a little crazy, barking a few times and spinning in a small circle.

“Hey, what have we said about barking?” Stiles admonished, setting the baby gate aside, and Echo barked again. Stiles grinned and reached down to rub the top of Echo’s head. “Good boy.”

“I’m trying to teach him _good_ manners,” Mr. Hale said behind him, and Stiles totally didn’t jump.

“Aw, he is a good boy,” Stiles said to the dog, Echo’s tail wagging excitedly as Stiles rubbed around his ears. He leaned over, letting his voice go mushy as he spoke to the dog. “Yes, you’re a very good boy.”

“You want a sandwich before you go to work?” Mr. Hale asked abruptly; when Stiles looked up, he was heading around the island of the kitchen, to the breadbox.

“Um.” He didn’t actually have to be at work today; Dave always gave him Fridays off. It was nice when Stiles had places to be on Fridays, but since he was grounded, he’d just be going back to spend the night with his dad or alone in his room. He had declined the past few days, using work as an excuse to leave, but when he had nowhere to go, he found himself in less of a rush.

And he was pretty hungry. “Sure.”

Mr. Hale acknowledged him with a slight nod, already dropping slices of bread into the toaster. The sounds of him wrinkling the bag drew Echo’s attention, and he pulled his head out of Stiles’ hands to wander over and investigate. Stiles followed, leaning on the opposite side of the island as Mr. Hale gathered other ingredients—lunchmeat, cheese, a small avocado, and a bottle of sriracha—from the fridge.

He moved with ease in the kitchen, and it seemed to be one of the few places in the house that he had fully settled, completely unpacked with the fridge and cabinets stocked. Echo seemed to like to be underfoot as he worked, but Derek moved around him easily as he pulled out a cutting board and a sharp knife, even going so far as to push him gently out of the way with a foot when he had to turn around again to grab a spoon. (Tris, meanwhile, sat prettily just out of range, looking innocent, but Stiles was willing to bet that if Derek dropped anything, she would be the first to get it, not Echo.)

It was quiet, though, as Derek cut the avocado in half, and Stiles hated the silence, so he led with the first thing that came to mind. “I don’t actually have to work today,” he said, watching with intrigue as Derek cut into the pit with the knife.

Derek didn’t say anything; he twisted his hand a little, and the pit popped out easily. He slid it off the tip and resumed cutting in a cross-hatched pattern across the meat of the fruit.

“I usually get Fridays off. Just…so you know.” Derek raised an eyebrow as he used a spoon to scoop out and mash the avocado, straight onto the cutting board. “In case you have more stuff for me to do, or something.” Derek stopped moving then, halfway to dolloping another spoonful of avocado onto the board, and cocked an eyebrow at Stiles.

“Are you trying to find an excuse to stay later?” he asked, his voice more than a little smug.

“What? No!” Abso-fucking-lutely _not_. “I was just—letting you know, so if you think you need to _keep_ me later, that’s a thing. That could happen.”

“Ah,” Derek said condescendingly, as the bread popped out of the toaster. “Good to know.”

Stiles waited until Derek turned his back to put more bread in to make a face at him; when he turned back, the already-toasted bread in hand, Stiles tried to school his expression into one of careful disinterest. From the eyebrow he got in return, he didn’t really succeed.

Derek didn’t comment though, and instead set about making a _monster_ sandwich. The end result was a huge double-decker of turkey, Swiss cheese, avocado, and sriracha hot sauce to taste. Stiles was only slightly intimidated when Derek pushed it his way.

He picked it up slowly, trying to figure out his plan of attack, and Derek smirked. “It’s not gonna bite you back.” He grinned, dare Stiles say wolfishly, and added, “Well, not much.”

Stiles gave him a withering glare, then took a huge bite.

“Oh my god,” he said instantly, not caring about the mess of food in his mouth or that it probably sounded mostly like “uhmhguh.” He groaned as he kept chewing, probably a bit more obscenely than he needed, and when he swallowed, said, “This is fucking delicious,” before taking another bite.

Derek was mashing the avocado more thoroughly against the cutting board as he waited for his own bread to pop, so he wasn’t looking at Stiles, but his ears were turning pink.

“If I’d known this was the kind of sandwich I’d be getting, I’d have said yes sooner,” Stiles said as he examined his sandwich to determine where the next bite would best be taken.

Derek scoffed, turning to the toaster as his own bread popped. “No you wouldn’t.”

Stiles chewed thoughtfully for a moment, not entirely sure if he was supposed to be offended by that. Either way, “This sandwich is hella good, dude,” he said, mouth still half-full, and then swallowed. “Thank you.”

“Don’t call me dude,” Derek said, and Stiles figured that was about the same as “You’re welcome.”

*

The next morning Stiles was stoned before nine.

He had been up since seven. He’d laid in bed for an hour, trying to fall back asleep—even though he’d already slept a good eight hours, having gone to bed early with nothing else to do the night before. (When his dad had started snoring through Hawaii Five-O, Stiles had ushered them both off to bed. After a fitful jerk-off session, he’d fallen asleep surprisingly quickly.)

Around eight, he’d stumbled blearily down to pee and brush his teeth, and had then decided on a whim to try finishing what his dad had left in the coffee pot before heading to work. It had been an absolutely awful decision, because Stiles was pretty sure the only thing worse than cold coffee was _lukewarm_ coffee, so he’d had to have a cigarette to get the taste out.

And then, because it was a Saturday morning and he had nothing else to do while his dad was at work, he’d lit some incense and packed himself a bowl.

Nine o’clock found him sitting in his underwear in the middle of his bed, his assorted weed paraphernalia scattered around him, with his laptop in his lap and half-smoked bowl by his knee. There was nothing suitably distracting on the internet though, and he kept eyeing the drawer where he kept his tattooing supplies, even though he had nothing particular in mind.

Was it too early to jack off and then take a nap?

His phone vibrating across his nightstand surprised him in the middle of a hit. He held his breath, only letting out a couple of small coughs as he reached for his phone. He exhaled the rest of the smoke in a long sigh with his head tipped back, the large cloud billowing from his mouth to crowd around the ceiling. He rolled his head around his neck, then let it hang forward as he opened up the message, mildly surprised to see it was from Scott this early in the morning. (Maybe his hangover was too bad to go back to sleep; Stiles _almost_ wished he had that problem. Almost.)

_To: The Pack (Allison, Stiles, Lydia, Jackson, Isaac, Erica, Boyd)  
Breakfast @ Roscoe’s?? 30 min_

For the most part, when their shared interests or schools didn’t bring them together, they all hung out in smaller groups of two or three, especially since the majority of them had at least one job and/or other interests. Outside of invitations to parties, texts like these were what they used to instigate large-scale group activities—Scott and Stiles always called it “howling to the pack.” Around five of them usually showed up, and sometimes the open parts of their schedules managed to coincide beautifully and _everyone_ showed up.

He was halfway to giving a positive response when he remembered he was on house arrest, and there was a pretty good chance his father was on patrol today.

“Come _on_ ,” he groaned, tossing his phone to a spare corner of the bed and picking his bowl back up. When his phone buzzed a couple more times, he ignored it, taking another hit. He took another, quickly, as his phone buzzed a few more times, and then sighed when he put the bowl down to pick his phone up.

From the look of it, everyone (sans Jackson) was going to be there.

Tossing his phone back on his bed, he turned to his laptop. His phone didn’t buzz anymore, but his eyes still kept flicking over to it, its silence mocking him. When he looked at it for the third time in a minute, he rolled his eyes at himself. He _really_ wished that Scott hadn’t done it as a mass text, or had at least had the forethought to not include Stiles in it. He really didn’t need to know what he was missing out on, thanks.

Then again…

Outside the fact that it had a breakfast and lunch menu served all day and had chili cheese fries that could cure any hangover, one of the perks of Roscoe’s—this 24-hour diner on the other side of town they tended to frequent—was that it was well outside the Sheriff’s usual patrol grounds, so Stiles had less of a chance of getting caught. He shouldn’t stay very long, probably not much longer than to drink some coffee and steal Scott’s toast, but…

Fuck it.

*

When he got there, almost everyone was there already, taking up an over-sized booth in the corner. None of them appeared particularly perky: Isaac was tucked into the corner of the booth, back against the window with one of his long legs tucked up onto the seat, with sunglasses over his eyes, a coffee stirrer in his mouth and the menu folded up in front of him. Boyd was next to him, his eyes a little droopy as he held his menu out in front of him enough so Erica, who was curled around his bicep with her head pillowed on his shoulder, could read it too.

Scott was sitting opposite Isaac, poring over his menu intently, like it was a chemistry problem he didn’t know how to solve yet. Allison was next to him, her hair mostly hidden under a hat that belonged to Scott, head pillowed on her arms on the table.

Stiles announced his presence with a “Yo.”

His greeting was met with various levels of enthusiasm—Allison merely waggled her fingers from where they were poking out from her crossed arms, Isaac jerked his chin a little, and Boyd didn’t even acknowledge him, while Scott looked up with a bright grin and Erica gave him a tired smile and a raspy “Hey.”

“What’s up, man?” Scott asked as Stiles flipped around the chair that had been added to the end of the table and then straddled it. “Glad you could make it out.”

“Oh, you know me,” Stiles said as he picked up a menu, flipping straight to the breakfast menu in the back, “Couldn’t resist a bit of mischief and mayhem.”

“All before noon?” Isaac said with a smirk, tilting his head so he was peering over the rims of his sunglasses. “Ambitious.”

Stiles opened his mouth to reply, but was distracted when he felt fingers brushing against his forearm; Erica had untangled one of her arms from Boyd to reach over and trace one of the designs on Stiles’ arm. “Nice ink.”

“Thanks,” he replied, and then Nadine, the usual Saturday morning waitress, walked up to them, using one hand and her shoulder to balance a tray of water glasses, a pot of coffee in the other hand.

“Is this all of us today?” she asked, setting the coffee pot down in the free space next to Allison before bringing the tray down to distribute the waters. As soon as she had let it go, Erica grabbed the coffee pot, flipping over one of the mugs in the middle of the table. Without lifting her head, Allison flipped over a mug as well, pushing it in Erica’s direction.

“No, there’s still one more…” Scott answered, craning his neck to check the door. “There she is.” Sure enough, there was Lydia, eyes searching the place for them, and Scott waved her over.

 “Okay,” Nadine said with a smile, setting down the last water in front of the empty space, as Lydia made her way around various tables. “I’ll come back in a bit to take your orders then.”

“Thank you,” Scott said, adding in one of his charming grins, and she smiled warmly at him before tucking the tray under her arm and walking away, brushing past Lydia on the way.

“You wanted some too, right?” Erica asked Stiles, and he looked back to see her already pouring into a third cup, hers and Allison’s both full. He nodded, as Allison finally lifted her head, simultaneously pulling her mug closer and reaching across Scott for the cream and sugar.

“Ugh,” Lydia said, sighing heavily as she took the spot next to Allison, picking up the cup of coffee that Erica had just poured for Stiles and taking a sip.

“By all means,” Stiles said dryly, and she raised an eyebrow over the rim of the cup, her red lips pursed as she blew on it before she took another sip.

“Sorry, was this yours?” she asked in a bored tone as she set the mug back down; her lipstick had left a stain on the rim.

“No, that cup of coffee sitting directly in front of me was definitely not for me,” Stiles drawled, turning back to the table. He sagged when he saw that not only had Isaac snagged the last mug at the table, but the pot was empty, too. “Aw, c’mon, guys! I risk my freedom for you, and this is how you treat me?”

Erica rolled her eyes as she smacked some sugar packets against her palm. “Calm down, drama queen, you can have some of mine.”

Crossing his arms over the back of the chair and setting his chin on it, Stiles pouted a little as he watched Erica pour in too many sugars and not enough cream. Then, like magic, another pot of coffee was set down on the table in front of him, and then another mug.

“I could kiss you!” he said, immediately popping up in his seat and turning to face Nadine. He flung himself forward, wrapping his arms around her waist, narrowly avoiding getting poked in the eye by one of the pens she kept in her pocket.

She laughed and patted his head with her free hand, the other holding the empty pot. “You looked so pathetic, I couldn’t leave you like that,” she said, as he detangled himself and descended upon the new pot of coffee.

“I knew you liked me best,” he said, glancing away from his pouring only just long enough to wink at her.

She rolled her eyes, knocking her hip gently enough into his shoulder so he didn’t spill. “Don’t push your luck.” Then she walked away, empty pot in hand.

“She is the _best_ ,” Stiles said as he reached across the table, plucking out two sugars and three creams in one swoop.

“I thought _I_ was the best,” Erica sniffed, and when she batted her thick eyelashes and pouted, Stiles noticed that her lipstick almost matched the bright pink ends of her hair.

“Sorry babe,” he said consolingly, patting her elbow before grabbing one of the rolls of silverware and digging into it.

Silence descended for a few moments, everyone mostly busy looking at their menus or drinking their coffees, until Isaac suddenly said, “So how’s that crush on your teacher going, Stiles?” and Stiles nearly choked on the spoon he’d been sucking clean.

“Dude?” Scott said, his face silently asking _you okay?_ as he held out a hand, even though he was too far away to do anything. Stiles waved him off, eyes watering a little as he pointed his spoon at Isaac, trying to ignore the fact that almost every eye at the table was on him.

For a second though, he struggled to come up with something to say, if only because he had never heard something more _wrong_ in his entire life and didn’t know how to express himself correctly. Crush? _Crush?_

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” he said finally, before calmly setting the spoon down and picking up his coffee, settling back to take a drink. Sure, he jacked off to the idea of Derek, but other than that anomaly at the beginning of the week, they were consistent fantasies of hooking up at school, or having to call him sir, sometimes scenes taken right out of bad gay porn. He didn’t have any kind of _crush_ on the guy. That would be—preposterous.

This was met with various reactions around the table: Lydia snorted and Erica outright laughed, while Allison looked like she was hiding her smile behind the rim of her cup. Boyd stuck his straw into his water and leaned forward to take a drink, shaking his head slightly as if to say _not my business_ , but Scott was nodding as he plucked a straw from the pile on the table. Isaac simply gave him a look that said _yeah, right._

Stiles made an affronted noise. “There’s no fucking _crush,_ you guys, are you kidding me?”

“Oh _please_ ,” Erica said with a roll of her eyes. “You talk about him all the time—”

“I do _not_ —”

“We’re talking about Mr. Hale, right?” Scott checked, looking up from where he’d been struggling a bit with taking his straw out of the wrapper; Stiles reached across the table to pluck it out of his hands and finished it off for him, even as Scott added, “Because you do kinda talk about him a lot.”

“Et tu, Brute?” Stiles shot the straw back at Scott; it hit him in the chest, and he scrambled to catch it before it slipped out of his lap. Stiles turned to the group at large, opening pleading hands. “But seriously, I’m not—I don’t talk about him _that_ much, considering how much of a dick he is to me—”

“A dick that you want to bone,” Isaac corrected, and Scott laughed while Stiles scowled.

“I can want to fuck someone without liking them,” he pointed out, unwrapping the paper coil around his silverware, just to roll it up and play with it.

“Obviously,” Lydia said, taking a drink from her coffee. Stiles flipped her off with a close-lipped grin.

There was a moment of quiet, in which Boyd sighed heavily, before Allison leaned forward and said, “I dunno, people who are kind of mean to you have always kind of been your type.”

Stiles scoffed. He couldn’t believe this was happening; how could they all gang up on him like this? Where had this even come from? “What? No—I’ve totally dated nice people.  There was Heather, and—and—” He struggled for a second, long enough for Isaac to raise a judgmental eyebrow and for Allison to share a smug look with Erica. “And Danny! He and I have totally have a thing, and everyone loves Danny!”

“Danny is possibly the meanest to you out of all of us,” Lydia pointed out before taking another sip of her coffee. Stiles flipped her off again.

“I didn’t realize fucking when you two were conveniently unattached counted as dating,” Isaac added with a sneer.

“I didn’t think being the third wheel on my best friends’ dates counted either,” Stiles snapped, and Boyd lifted his head, frowning, as Isaac’s face opened into a hurt expression that quickly turned into a scoff.

“Fuck you, Stiles,” Erica said under her breath, as Isaac just shook his head, draining his coffee cup.

“I need to use the bathroom,” he said, pushing on Boyd’s shoulder, urging him and Erica out of the booth. They stood silently, Erica glaring at Stiles, neither Boyd nor Isaac looking at him, and Stiles shook his head, beginning to tear up the paper in his hands.

“Guess it’s no surprise you like assholes. Takes one to like one, yeah?” Isaac said, as he rose to his full height next to Stiles, turning away before Stiles could glare up at him. Stiles looked back down at the pieces he was tearing up.

As he walked away, Erica and Boyd sliding back into the booth, Scott said quietly to the paper placemat in front of him, “That wasn’t cool, man.”

“Yeah, well.” Stiles tossed away the remnants of the paper coil and grabbed a sugar packet, eyes focused on it as he played with it. “He started it,” he said, even though he knew it was a lame excuse. He didn’t have to look up to know that each one of them was giving him some kind of reproachful look.

“I’m gonna have a smoke,” he said, tossing the sugar packet to the table and standing up, already digging in his pockets. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

No one said anything as he walked away.

The thing between Isaac, Erica, and Boyd was a complicated thing; Isaac wasn’t officially dating either of them since they were officially dating each other, but he still managed to have semi-regular sex with both of them. Usually at the same time. Stiles had gathered that there were some heavy feelings involved, ones that either weren’t or couldn’t be reciprocated from different ends, but they made it work as well as they could. For the most part everyone just turned a blind eye when the three of them went into tripod mode. It was just them.

Stiles didn’t have anything against it. Before, when none of them were dating or fucking each other, Erica had cried a lot about it when she was drunk. He hated seeing her cry, it was awful, so now that they all seemed a bit happier, he was even kind of happy for them.

He didn’t always have an excuse for being an asshole. It was kind of just what he did sometimes.

Just outside the door, he stopped to pull out a cigarette. His realization that it might be a bad idea to stay there happened when a car drove up, slowing down and turning into the drive for the parking lot. It certainly had nothing to do with the fact that when he glanced back in the window, he could see his friends talking amongst themselves; after a moment, Erica left the table, and Stiles could only assume she’d gone after Isaac.

The sounds of doors slamming shut knocked him out of watching his friends, cig halfway to his lips; two women, both with long dark hair, had gotten out of the car, looking like they were bickering about something. Before they could get any closer, he turned on his heel and headed around to the back of the building.

He let his cigarette dangle from his mouth as he stuffed his pack back into his pocket and dug out his lighter and opened it. Cupping his free hand around the tip to shield it as he turned the corner around the back, he sucked in greedily until it flared to life. His eyes closed as he breathed in, and he kept them closed as he held his breath, plucking the cigarette from his mouth.

He held his breath until his chest ached with it. Then he tipped his head back and exhaled with a loud sigh, opening his eyes to watch the smoke disperse into the air as he brought his cigarette back up to his lips.

Then someone—who definitely wasn’t Stiles—cleared their throat.

Stiles definitely did not _yelp_ , thank you very kindly, he just—made a loud noise as he flailed in the direction of the voice, and his cigarette dropped from his mouth and lighter clattered to the ground as he did so. He watched the lighter skitter away, only to come to a stop next to a familiar-looking boot.

“Oh…my…god,” he said, and sure enough, when he followed the boots up, he recognized every part of Derek Hale, leaning casually against the wall behind Roscoe’s. “Are you fucking _kidding_ me?”

Derek—Mr. Hale—Derek gave him a look like he wasn’t sure whether to be confused or amused. “Good to see you too, Stiles.”

Stiles didn’t even know what to do with himself for a moment; he ended up staring, just—taking it all in. Derek _fucking_ Hale was standing in front of him. Why did it have to be _him_ , of all people? God, and he looked _good_ , too, in tight jeans and his leather jacket again, with a purple shirt that had a wide V-neck, showing off his collarbones and a hint of _chest hair_ and—

“What the hell is _that_?” he said, pointing, even though he knew full well what a cigarette looked like.

Derek didn’t say anything, merely raising his cigarette to his mouth. As he sucked in, his cheeks hollowed, highlighting his stupid cheekbones and stupid scruff and stupid _mouth_ —

Stiles kind of wanted to punch him in the face.

Derek quirked an eyebrow, and with a jolt, Stiles realized how badly he’d been staring; he snapped into action, bending down to pick up his cigarette. “This isn’t happening,” he muttered as he reached for his lighter, still by Derek’s boot. He could feel Derek’s eyes on him the whole time, and felt his cheeks grow hot. “This isn’t happening,” he repeated, bringing his cig up to his mouth again as he rose back to his feet. He shook his head as he angled himself away from Derek, completely willing to pretend he wasn’t even there. Because this _wasn’t happening_.

He could still feel Derek’s eyes on him though, and it took him two puffs on his cigarette to realize it had gone out.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he hissed, flicking his lighter back open and cupping his hand again.

He wasn’t sure if there was a breeze, or if he was breathing too hard, or if it had run out of fluid, or if his hands were shaking too much, but he couldn’t get his lighter to fucking stay lit for the life of him. He was ready to chuck it back on the ground when Derek gruffly said, “Here.”

Stiles flinched back a little, having been unaware that Derek had gotten closer, and then frowned down at the blue lighter under his nose. He looked up at Derek, who just raised an eyebrow before flicking it on, the flame flaring up strong. Narrowing his eyes a little, Stiles dropped his own hands and leant forward, his cigarette catching quickly on the flame. Derek stepped back as soon as it was lit, retreating back to the wall.

After a moment of stilted silence, in which Stiles plucked the cigarette from his lips and exhaled brusquely, he managed a begrudging, “Thanks.”

Derek nodded once, looking down as he flicked ash off the end of his own cig.

The silence drew on, thick and awkward between them; Stiles wanted to break it, so badly, but didn’t even know what to say. He was smoking with a teacher right now. Smoking. With _Derek_. The absolute _last_ teacher he wanted to see outside school—wait, scratch that, Mr. Harris would have probably been much worse. But still. _Derek_.

“So why are you hiding back here?” he finally blurted, and wanted to immediately punch himself in the face.

Derek looked up at the sound of Stiles’ voice; his lips were pursed around the filter he had tucked into the crease of his middle and forefinger, so he lifted his eyebrows in a ‘who, me?’ expression. Stiles didn’t know who the fuck else he could be talking to, and hoped he expressed that well enough with his face.

Rolling his eyes, Derek brought his hand back down and scoffed as he exhaled grey smoke. “My sisters are in town,” he said, as if that explained everything. At Stiles’ look, he sighed and added, “I told them I quit.”

“Ahh.” Stiles nodded as he took another drag. “So… it has nothing to do with not wanting your students to see you smoking.”

Derek shot him a sharp look, his lips pursed around the end of his cigarette. Stiles didn’t back down. Derek finished inhaling, then shrugged. “Hadn’t really crossed my mind. Most of my students aren’t usually out of bed this early on a Saturday morning.”

“Lucky them.” He took a drag of his own cigarette, then said, “Mr. Driscoll takes his car for a cigarette break during his lunch break every day.” Derek frowned in confusion at him. He shrugged and continued, “And Mrs. Livingston has been known to smoke behind the dumpsters in between classes.” He flicked his cigarette. “And one time, Mrs. Thole asked to bum a cigarette from the classroom at large. The next week she was gone, run off to Acapulco with her new girlfriend.” Derek’s eyebrows rose sharply, and then he let out a surprised laugh that caught Stiles by surprise too; he was grinning back before he could remember not to. “Just, you know. In case you wanted a smoking buddy at school.”

Exhaling the smoke through his nose, Derek said shortly, “I don’t.”

There was another stretch of silence, in which they both took measured pulls from their respective cigarettes, and then Stiles spoke around his cloud of smoke. “So…sisters.” Derek raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you had sisters.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” he replied, and Stiles wanted to open his mouth immediately to argue—he knew about Derek’s dogs and how much he loved them, he knew that Derek liked to cook, he knew his music taste—but then he remembered his friend’s smug grins barely ten minutes ago, and scowled instead.

He shook his head and flicked ash away. “And these sisters of yours…how do you think they’d feel about you contributing to the delinquency of minors?”

Derek finished inhaling from his cigarette, then shrugged. “Probably about as well as they’d feel if they knew I was late because I was smoking.” He sighed, flicking his cigarette even though it hadn’t accumulated any ash yet. “I’m _trying_ to quit,” he added, weary, like he’d been saying it for a long time.

“Swell job of it.”

That earned him a glare, but Stiles just gave him a challenging look, pointedly bringing his cig back up to his mouth. Derek on the other hand threw the butt and remaining tobacco to the ground, pushing off the wall to step forward and crush it under the toe of his boot.

For a second Stiles thought he was going to walk away without another word, but then Derek dug into an inside pocket in his jacket and pulled out a package of mints. Wordlessly, he offered one to Stiles, who waved it off as he brought his cigarette back up to his mouth.

After popping one, Derek slipped the mints back into his pockets, and then shoved his hands in them as well. “So did anyone end up giving her a cigarette?”

“What? Who?” He had his head whipped around, looking for another person, before he could think to remind himself that they both would have heard someone come up. With as much dignity as he could muster, he looked back at Derek, who was looking like he was trying not to smile.

“The one who ran off to Acapulco.” Stiles blinked, taking a second to rewind through their conversation before he got it. “Did anyone actually give her one when she asked for it?”

Stiles laughed and shook his head, bringing his cig back up to his mouth. “Not when she asked for it, no,” he said around it before finishing his inhale. “I may or may not have left one in her desk for her after class, though.”

He also may or may not have continued leaving her cigarettes every day after that, until she hadn’t shown up for class. He wasn’t sure if she smoked them or not, but they were gone every time he went back to give her a new one.

Watching his boot scuff across the cement, Derek nodded, wearing a wry grin. “How nice of you.”

“I can be nice,” Stiles said with a shrug, flicking at the butt of his cigarette. Then he remembered his friends, all still waiting for him to come back and apologize, and his stomach curled. “When the occasion calls for it,” he added, frowning a bit at himself, and at that, Derek pushed himself back off the wall.

“I’m sure.” He took his hands out of his pockets, then put them back in. “Well, as fun as this was,” he said, finally deciding to take them out and leave them out, “my sisters are waiting.”

Stiles nodded, gesturing a bit with his hand. “Yeah, of course.” Derek was already walking backwards towards the corner of the building, like he couldn’t wait to be gone. “Uh. Good luck with that.”

Pausing at the corner, Derek looked like he wasn’t sure what to say. Stiles wasn’t sure either, so he brought his cigarette up to his mouth. “See you on Monday,” Derek finally said.

Nodding so the smoke wouldn’t escape his lungs, Stiles waved vaguely. Derek nodded too, and then disappeared around the corner.

Stiles quickly exhaled, then brought his cigarette back up to his mouth; he still had about half of it to go. His mouth felt too dry now, like he was about to choke on the taste of ash in his mouth, but he took another puff anyway, inhaling long and deep.

He looked down at his hand as he exhaled, only just noticing that it was shaking a bit. With a disgusted huff at himself, he rolled his eyes and took another drag. Then he started heading back around to the front, stopping just outside the door to finish his cig and scope the scene.

Isaac had returned to the table, now sitting in between Boyd and Erica; Boyd’s arm was stretched along the back of the booth, touching both Isaac and Erica, while Erica was snugged up as close as possible to Isaac’s other side.  Stiles frowned as he took a drag, feeling his stomach twist a little with guilt. He hadn’t meant it, really, they had to know that—he never meant anything he said, didn’t they understand sarcasm?

As he took yet another drag—god, this was the longest cigarette of his life—and continued watching, everyone at the table seemed a bit distracted: Erica kept throwing glances over her shoulder, Lydia’s gaze on a fixed point somewhere behind them, while Allison and Scott’s heads were both ducked down. Isaac looked like he was trying not to burst out laughing.

Then his phone buzzed, twice in quick succession; Stiles took another quick puff before he dug in his pocket.

 _From: Scott_  
Holy shit dude  
Mr hale is here

Stiles snorted. “Yeah, thanks for the warning, buddy,” he said before sticking his cig in his mouth so he could type a reply, tucking it into the corner of his mouth next to his lip ring. The smoke curled up and straight into his nose; he tried not to sneeze as he quickly replied. He supposed he could thank Derek, really, for giving Stiles the chance to make a clean getaway.

 _From: Stiles_  
Initial recon points to failure  
Aborting mission

Scott’s reply came quickly, but Stiles was already heading back to his Jeep, and he didn’t stop to check it until he had to wait for a couple cars to pass before he could pull out of the drive.

_From: Scott  
Roger that_

Tossing the phone into the passenger seat, he checked both ways one last time and then he was off, wondering why he’d bothered to come out at all. He hadn’t even gotten to finish his coffee.

*

He was in the middle of an accidental nap when his dad came home that afternoon, the door slamming loud enough to startle Stiles awake. Stiles nearly lost his laptop, catching it just as it slid off his knee, and it was with a rapidly beating heart that he took stock of the situation, listening to the noises of his father taking off his gun belt and jacket just inside the door. Fuck, his room still smelled a little like the weed he’d smoked when he’d gotten back from Roscoe’s, his weed box was still open at the foot of his bed, his lighter and his bowl still on his nightstand, and—and— _shit_ —

“Stiles!” his dad yelled up the stairs as he began to climb them; he had that ‘pissed but trying to hide it’ tone, and Stiles’ heart kicked up a notch, because he’d definitely been caught for _something_.

His door was already shut and locked, a towel pressed along the crack at the bottom, and Stiles thanked the universe for small favors as he scrambled out of bed, tossing the incriminating evidence into its box and nearly tripping over himself as he hid it back in his closet. The incense he’d lit earlier had long gone out, but he knew there was a can of Axe somewhere in the room, even if he hadn’t used it since the Axe Bomb Incident of 2012.

“Stiles, are you up?” his dad called when he reached the top of the stairs, as Stiles got to his knees to frantically search under his bed.

“Yeah!” Stiles called back, hoping he didn’t sound too muffled. “Hang on, I just—just got out of the shower—” he called, and his father’s steps paused at Stiles’ door. C’mon, he’d just seen the can like, last week, it couldn’t have gone far—

“We need to talk, son,” his father said sternly, just outside the door, his voice brokering no argument before Stiles could even start one.

Fuck. “Okay!” he said, trying to sound as non-guilty as possible as he shoved a few things around under his bed. “Just a sec, I just—need to put some clothes on—”

Then he moved a dirty sock aside, and had to restrain from crowing in victory when it revealed a familiar-looking spray can. He pulled himself back up to his feet, frantically spraying the air and trying not to choke on it, before chucking the can into the mountain of dirty clothes spilling from his closet. He grabbed the closest shirt to him—the paint splatters on it told him it was one of the ones he’d worn to Derek’s over the past week—and pulled it on as his father said his name again, warningly, and rapped his knuckles on the door.

“I’m coming!” Stiles said exasperatedly, checking around the room one last time for anything incriminating as he made it to the door. Kicking the towel out of the way, he swiftly unlocked it and pulled it open, just enough that his father could see his body but not into the room properly. “What’s up, Pops?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound too breathless.

And he could see immediately that his approach was not going to fly. His dad looked stern and _pissed_ , and it was times like these that Stiles understood why his dad made such a good cop. He wasn’t sure what his father knew—he’d learned young that it was best to wait to see what you were in trouble for before admitting to anything—but that didn’t stop him from _wanting_ to admit to everything. He waited for his dad to start yelling, sure he could smell the weed, sure he knew about this morning, sure he knew about Mr. Hale, sure he knew about _everything_. His dad was going to ground him for the rest of his natural-born life—

But then, all his dad did was hold out his hand and say, “Give me your keys.”

Stiles blanched, even as his stomach sank, and tried valiantly to keep an innocent face. “What? Why?”

“Because apparently I wasn’t clear enough when I said you weren’t leaving the house for anything but school, work, or community service.” Stiles tried not to look like he’d been caught out, but he was sure it showed as his dad beckoned with his hand. “Come on. Hand ‘em over.”

Stiles blustered out of habit more than anything, even as his dad’s face grew stonier. “What—I—what are you talking about, I only just woke up—”

“Dammit, Stiles, I thought you weren’t gonna lie to me anymore,” his father said, and Stiles immediately deflated. Wordlessly, he stepped back from the door, letting it swing open as he crossed the room to his dresser.

His father stayed in the doorway, crossing his arms over his chest. If he thought the room smelled a little funny, he didn’t comment as he watched Stiles pick up the keys and cross the room again. Stiles held them out silently, and his dad snatched them out of his grip.

“How am I supposed to get around?” Stiles asked suddenly, watching as his keys disappeared into his dad’s pocket. “I can’t walk to work after school and make it on time.”

“That sounds like your problem, not mine,” his dad said, crossing his arms again. “You knew the rules, and you broke them, Stiles. You have to deal with the consequences.”

“But—” He’d figured his dad would take his phone first, not completely deprive him of transportation. He could live without his phone for a week or two, even though he’d probably go crazy, but now he’d either have to be late everywhere or depend on someone else. He didn’t really mind being late to school, or even Derek’s, but he didn’t want to get _fired_ —

He cut off when his dad raised a finger. “Keep pushing, Stiles, and I’m gonna really get mad.”

One of Stiles’ better survival instincts was to know when to stop pushing. He nodded, looking down and tonguing at his lip ring. The sheriff paused, then added, “And open a window next time.”

Stiles looked back up in surprise, but his dad was already walking away, heading for his own room at the end of the hall.

After turning the lock on his door, he flopped into bed, and after a moment, screamed into his pillow.


End file.
